Chuck vs The Frontier
by ninjaVanish
Summary: AU: Chuck was enjoying a simple life as a 19th century watchmaker until an encounter with a beautiful Secret Service agent thrust him into a world of intrigue and adventure he never wanted. But then, with Agent Walker around, it can't be all bad, can it?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Okay, prepare for crazy. Sci-fi/western. This one's been trapped in limbo on my phone for awhile without much progress. Hopefully some reviews will motivate me to write.

Disclaimer: Not owning characters in my toybox is durned annoying, but whatevs. I don't own Chuck.

Chapter 1: Bartowski and Son

July 12, 1892

The sign hanging out front of the two story storefront proclaimed 'Bartowski and Son' watch, clock, phonograph and misc repair. The whole building had a weathered, melancholy feel to it, not helped by the almost eerily synchronized ticking of the hundreds of clocks that lined the walls inside. Glass cases holding pocket watches and other merchandise made walking through the main commercial areas difficult, partially to foil would be thieves, and partially because the owner couldn't be bothered to move them.

"Chuck, are you in there?" Stephen Bartowski asked, knocking on the doorframe to his son's workshop, tucked away in the back corner of the top floor. It was mostly a rhetorical question. "I need to step out. Bryce is on the counter, but if Mrs. Bower arrives before my return you may need to back him up. Chuck, give me a sign if you heard me."

Chuck took his magnifier out of his eye and set it down next to the gold pocket watch he was working on. "I was listening. I promise."

"Good enough, son. Good enough," Stephen paused a moment, in thought before he added, "I shouldn't be gone long. Mr. Roark just wants to go over the contracts one more time."

Chuck turned on his stool and waved. "Bring me back some springsteel. We're running low again, and I don't know why. Seems like the stuff is disappearing faster than we can stock it," Chuck said, and went back to his work. He didn't spot his father wincing at the fact Chuck had noticed.

He found the problem with the watch he was fixing after a few minutes; a gear on the third layer down had bent out of true, gumming up the entire works. It would be an easy fix, just not a quick one. Chuck had to dismantle roughly two thirds of the watch before he could get at the damaged gear. He let out a sigh. Now that the puzzle was solved, he wasn't sure he could stay on task long enough to finish the repair. Still, he set to work with the tiny calipers and screwdrivers that were the watchmaker's stock in trade. After maybe an hour, an abrupt cough brought him out of his focus on the watch.

"Really, Chuck," Bryce smirked from leaning against the doorframe. "Do you actually think you'll win the heart of the lovely Miss Roberts slaving away in here all day, brother? Have I taught you nothing?"

Chuck frowned. "Jill and I are just friends, Bryce," he said. "Anyway, I heard she walked out with that Englishman, Lord Barker, two days past. I'm sure he's a much better prospect than the son of a watchmaker. I expect the announcement of the match to be the talk of Boston in a fortnight."

Bryce rolled his eyes. "And I heard her say, Mr. Barker was-" Here he pitched his voice high and womanly. "Quite full of himself and wished only to speak of the high esteem he was held in by the peerage in London. Highly unbecoming of a man purporting to be a gentleman," Bryce's grin turned smug, and let his voice turn back to its usual brassy rumble. "Unlike a certain Watchmaker's son of her acquaintance."

Chuck fumbled his calipers, and took three tries to collect them. Finally he gathered himself. "She didn't really, did she? If this is one of your jokes, Bryce Larkin, I swear I'll punch your teeth down your throat."

His grin actually slipped for a moment, but then he laughed and clapped his hands. "I actually think you mean it! Good for you, Son of 'Bartowski and Son.' Its about time you stood up for yourself. But you should know I'd never jest about the lovely Miss Roberts! She's one of the only girls in Boston who can resist my winning smile and roguish good looks."

"Not to mention your humility," Chuck put in snidely, and Bryce laughed again.

"Just so, just so dear Charles Irving," Bryce said. "If not for you my head would be the size of a surveyor's balloon."

"And just as full of hot air," Chuck said almost under his breath.

Bryce rolled his eyes. "Uncalled for, Chuck. Here I am, trying to help you win the girl you've been pining for since Harvard and you throw it in my face."

Chuck shrugged and sighed. "Yes, here you are, instead of at the counter where you belong. Father said one of the investors might be visiting today, it wouldn't do to have the shop deserted when she stops by."

"No, it would be a shame if today was just the same as yesterday, or the day before," Bryce said. "Or the day before that, or th-"

"Enough, Bryce," Chuck said. "Father's patents should come through soon and then 'Bartowski, Roark and Associates' becomes the rival of Edison's Menlo Park."

"I know you're looking forward to that, but please don't get your hopes up," Bryce said. "I would love to be able to put my education to use at something other than 'the counter.' And I love Stephen like a father, but this isn't the first time he's fed you that line about Menlo Park. Edison doesn't even live there any more."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "I know, Bryce. But I have a feeling about this. He showed me one of the patent documents, and it was astonishing. This time he's on to something, I'm sure of it. With Mr. Roark's money and the breakthroughs father's made... It's simply astounding!"

"Well, I defer to your judgment," Bryce said. "I never could get the hang of the Calculus like you and father."

"Modesty, from Bryce Larkin?" Chuck said in mock scandalized tones.

Bryce narrowed his eyes. "Have it your way," He said and started for the front of the building with exaggerated slowness. "If you don't wish to court the lovely Miss Roberts, perhaps I'll give it another attempt myself!" He said over his shoulder. "I'm sure she can only resist my smile for so long."

Chuck swept up his overcoat and passed Bryce in the hallway. Bryce chuckled. His plan was working prefectly. So he'd left out a couple of things, such as Jill's statement about Chuck's eyebrows. He shuddered a little where his friend couldn't see him. What could possibly attract the woman about eyebrows he could never grasp. They were eyebrows by God!

And then he walked into the store proper and his jaw dropped. Bryce managed to shut his mouth after a moment, but he thought Chuck might have more trouble. His eyes flicked up and locked inadvertently on her eyebrows, and he knew what Jill had been talking about. It took him longer than he expected or was accustomed to pulling his eyes off her eyebrows, and by the time he managed it, Chuck had found his tongue first.

"Introductions are in order," Chuck said. "Mrs. Bower, this is my father's ward, Bryce Larkin. Bryce, this is Mrs. Bower, the investor father and I were talking about this morning. As you seemed to miss it the first time through."

Bryce flushed slightly and tipped an imaginary hat at her. Mrs. Bower rolled her eyes and flipped a heavy mane of blond hair over her shoulder. She looked through him for a moment as if he was some kind of insect. Bryce was impressed in spite of himself, it had taken him almost half a minute to stop staring at her face and actually take in her figure, trim but shapely in a blue linen dress in the current fashion of things, large poofy skirts and a bustle, white lace at the cuffs and bodice. He snatched his eyes away from the bodice, hopefully before she noticed. He grinned sheepishly, but she was already locking eyes with Chuck and putting out her hand. "Actually, its _Miss_ Bower," She smiled at Chuck and waggled the fingers of her left hand next to her outstretched right to highlight the lack of a ring. "I'm not married. Call me Sandra."

Now it was Chuck's turn to stare, but he was locked onto the absence of a wedding ring. He'd always been, and would always be the better person. Bryce was the first to say it, Chuck was too good for his _own_ good sometimes, and Chuck had obviously heard "Mrs." Bower and tuned out from her beauty at the knowledge that she was married. It was a talent that Bryce envied, he'd often gotten himself in trouble in similar situations, and nearly had to fight two duels.

As Chuck's brain seemed to have shut off momentarily, Bryce stepped in, seized Miss Bower's hand and stooped to plant a kiss on the back. "A pleasure to meet you Sandra."

She fixed him with the stare that made him feel like an insect again and wiped her hand with a kerchief that seemed to appear by magic, "You can call me Miss Bower, Mr. Larkin."

Bryce's smile cracked and withered, though he tried to hide it. He wasn't accustomed to such a quick dismissal, but he was far from stupid. Never in all his life had Bryce Larkin pressed matters where he _so_ obviously wasn't wanted.

"My apologies, if I offended," Bryce started. He frowned in mid-thought, his keen mind for body language and expression telling him volumes of the sudden electric thrill in the room coming from Chuck and the inestimable Miss Bower. It felt to Bryce as if one of Tesla's electrical coils was suddenly and ominously buzzing behind his head. He doubted if either of them even felt it yet, but Chuck Bartowski's luck with women seemed to have taken a turn for the better. "If you both would excuse me, I have pressing business elsewhere." Bryce gathered his bowler hat from the rack and shrugged on his coat against the September chill. "Chuck, Miss Bower," he said, tipped his hat, and made for the door like a scalded dog.

Out in the street he debated for a moment what to do. Chuck probably wasn't yet aware that he was smitten by the lovely Miss Bowers. It had taken him years to realize his feelings for Jill, but Bryce had seen from the start, just as with Sandra. It would have been somewhat entertaining to watch, Chuck trying to juggle the two, if he weren't Bryce's best friend. And Jill deserved better than to be led on and then dropped unceremoniously for the new Blond in Chuck's life. As Bryce was sure would happen. It left him in something of a cleft stick, as it were. Jill was a friend too, and he respected her too much to lie about such a thing.

He growled an uncharacteristic obscenity under his breath. When had his life become so complicated? Could he pinpoint the moment, of course. The moment Chuck had laid eyes on this Sandra Bower. Bryce shook himself. Navel gazing and woolgathering, he was a man of action, and even if the course of action was unappealing, something had to be done. He resolved to call upon the Roberts' house and figure it out as he went along.

* * *

"Would you care for some tea, Miss Bower?"

"Please, call me Sandra. I insist."

Chuck swallowed the lump in his throat. "Tea, then, Sandra?"

She paused a moment, as if deep in thought, puzzling over an offer of tea. Chuck furrowed his brow, in consternation, tried to figure out a way to give her a polite means of refusal, but she beat him to it. "Tea would be lovely," she said. "Thank you. I'm no longer accustomed to such hospitality. My time in the territories has made me partial to coffee."

"I would prefer it myself," Chuck admitted, "But this is Boston, and it's a matter of principle."

Sandra frowned, "I'm not sure I take your meaning. .."

"The Boston Tea Party? We went to all that trouble with the Redcoats, we should at least drink the stuff from time to time."

She laughed, only briefly, but the sound was like water on parched earth. Chuck laughed along with her, but he could tell that something was bothering her. Though Sandra had a beautiful laugh, there was something rough and unpracticed about it. It seemed she didn't laugh much.

As Chuck poured water and put the kettle on the stove he studied her covertly in the reflection she cast in the windows. There was another puzzle here, and there was a quirk in his mind, he was well aware of it, thankfully. Chuck could never resist a good puzzle.

They made small talk while the water boiled, little of consequence, but they bantered like old friends, as if they'd known each other for years. Chuck couldn't help but be a little dazzled by her beauty, and he tripped over himself a pair of times, trying to make her laugh again unsuccessfully. Though she did grin toothily both times and blush just a touch and glance away, so she was at least trying not to laugh _at _him.

Chuck and Sandra were settling into a comfortable rhythm when the teakettle began whistling. A bare handful of seconds later, there was a pounding from the front door.

He wrapped a cloth around his hand and pulled the kettle from the heat, placed it on the table before Miss Bower and shrugged, "Excuse me, I'll see who that is. The tea-ball and the leaves are in the cupboard to your left."

Chuck frowned and shuffled into the front room of the store. Clocks ticking from the walls lent the whole room an odd ominous air, as if counting down to something somehow. He opened the door reluctantly.

"Mr. Bartowski?" A black coated policeman asked somberly. His brass buttons glittered in the afternoon light.

Chuck shrugged self-consciously, "You probably wish to speak to my father. I'm sorry, he's stepped out for the moment. If you leave a card, I'm sure he'll pay a call at the precinct tomorrow."

The policeman doffed his hat and held it over his heart, looking down at his feet, "That— ahem— I'm sorry. I... You're needed at the hospital, Mr. Bartowski. I'm afraid your father has run afoul of a pair of street-thieves. He's been shot."

Chuck's eyes widened and he heard a gasp from back in the store. The policeman went up on his toes to peer into the relative gloom of the shop over Chuck's shoulder, his height had screened Sandra from view. Chuck gathered himself and made every effort to keep his voice from quavering, when he turned to face her, "I'm sorry Miss Bower." He couldn't quite keep the quaver out after all. "We'll have to... I..." He couldn't get any more out past the sudden tightness of his throat.

Sandra bustled over quickly despite her bulky skirts and the labyrinthlike interior of 'Bartowski and Son.' Her face was set in a determined line, though he could see pity in her eyes, and something else. The puzzle deepened. She moved with a quickness and a grace that Chuck was sure he could never have duplicated, even in his less cumbersome trousers. She looped her arm through his, and her presence had a subtle calming effect. "Lead the way, officer," She said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Yes ma'am," The policeman said, clamping his hat back on so that he could tip it to her.

Waiting out in the street was a hackney coach. Mr. Roark had sent it, the policeman explained as they bounced into motion, with his regrets.

TO BE CONTINUED...

A/N: That is Sarah, just undercover. Casey won't be showing up for a while. Not really sure where this one's going at the moment, in the long term. And before anyone says anything, yeah, Chuck is getting an intersect, or something similar.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: So, this has been stewing a while, sorry it took as long as it did. I actually did some research on 1890s slang, and late 19th century Boston, so if you think it doesn't fit, boo on you. Look up your own outdated slang. Speaking on research, the internet is a wonderful thing. JSTOR in particular if you're serious about it.

Chapter 2: Knowledge

The hackney coach Mr. Roark had hired sped though the city at first, in the better parts of town where the Bartowski family home had been built in the early parts of the century. As they left the wide avenues and well-cobbled streets for the haphazard, narrow, dirty lanes clogged with people and garbage the coach slowed, unable to make much headway against the number of other carts and pedestrians. Chuck peered out the window at the city passing by and shivered. Boston had always seemed safe, if not always clean and mannered like he would have preferred. Now that had changed too, and every alley yawned with dangers he couldn't fathom. It was another puzzle, like Miss Bower, but it wasn't one that he wanted to solve. He just wanted this particular puzzle to go away. His father, stabbed, or shot, which one? He couldn't remember now. Wasn't that odd? A detail like that could be important. Chuck squeezed his eyes closed and counted back from five, hoping, praying that when he opened his eyes he'd be back at his workbench looking down at a broken watch, jeweler's lens in his eye, and his tiny screwdrivers ready to hand. Not staring at the shards of a broken life.

He opened his eyes and he was looking into cool blue orbs, so deep and cool that if he fell into them, he knew he would drown but couldn't make himself care. "Shh," Sandra murmured. "There's nothing you can do trying to break your fist on the side of the coach, Charles. Best you'll manage is to punch a hole in, and then you'll just have to pay damages." He looked down and saw his hand, held in both of hers firmly, knuckles split and bloody where he'd punched the wooden paneling without realizing it.

"When did I do that?" Chuck said aloud, frowning. "Shouldn't I have felt that?"

"Grief can do odd things to a man," Sandra whispered. The policeman met Chuck's eyes for only a moment, and then turned to look out the window as if he hadn't seen anything.

"He's not dead," Chuck protested, putting more force into it than he intended or Sandra deserved. "I'm sorry, Miss Bower, I don't mean to snap at you. You've done nothing to—"

"I know the stress you're under, Charles," She said, "But that's no excuse. I told you. Call me Sandra."

That somehow made him smile. "And I told you to call me Chuck."

She wrinkled her nose and carefully squeezed his hand in hers so that she didn't put any pressure on his tender knuckles. "Fair enough, Chuck."

"Thank you."

She frowned just as prettily as she did everything else. "What for?" Was all she said. Chuck waved with his free hand.

"All this, coming along. Talking me through this," He shrugged. "You're right about grief. I don't know if I could do this alone. With Ellie gone and Bryce off God knows where, thank you."

Sandra arched an eyebrow. "Who's Ellie. She's not a steady is she?"

Chuck somehow laughed. "No, no. She's..." The laugh turned into a cough and he shook his head. "She's my sister."

"Oh," Sandra said. "Gone where?"

Chuck cocked an eyebrow. Why so interested? She seemed genuinely curious, but his mind was whirring along at a heady speed, like a runaway train, was the only analogy he could come up with on short notice. He was looking for clues, even where motivations were obvious. Chuck shook himself. "Sorry. I don't know. The last letter I had from her, She and her husband were setting up their medical practice in New Orleans."

"_Their_ medical practice?" Sandra said, a little startled. "Is she a doctor as well?"

Chuck couldn't help but be a little proud. "Yes, she was top of her class, Boston Female Medical School. Father had hoped she would follow him into the Natural Sciences, but..."

Sandra seemed to pick up on his need to change the subject back off of his father. "New Orleans, that's a long sight from Boston," Sandra said. "When did you see her last?"

"Years. Father didn't get on well with Devon, but Ellie was stuck on him, and father should have known better. Ellie was always just as stubborn as he was." Chuck blinked again, "And now I'm talking about both of them as if they're dead."

Sandra smiled sadly, then glanced at the policeman. He was still seemingly engrossed by whatever was passing by out his window. She bit her lower lip thoughtfully for a moment. "Move over," She said, and pressed herself into the seat next to Chuck. There was scarcely enough room without her having to squeeze in tight against his right side. It felt better than it had a right to, just at that moment. Sandra put her head down on his shoulder. "It'll all come out right in the end, Chuck. You just have to have faith."

The policeman cleared his throat. "We're here."

* * *

Massachusetts General Hospital was a massive building, only two stories, but set off as it was on its own, built out of white stone with the heavy marble pillars shining out front, it almost looked one of those fancy Greek buildings they'd based the capitol off of. His first sight of the hospital put him at ease, surely something this huge and monolithic, a beacon of medical care, could save his father. Chuck shuddered and nearly fell getting out of the Hackney coach. The waste of it struck him then, hiring a coach and driver, when the new streetcar line could have taken them just as easily, from the station down at the end of the line near the Cabot mansion.

Chuck shook his head, the bubble of his expectations bursting, when a man with one leg missing above the knee and bloody bandages wrapped around the stump crutched his way down the front stairs. So much for modern medical technology. He turned to give Sandra a hand down from the coach, but she moved with that same grace she always had, and Chuck suspected she might have been humoring him in accepting his aid.

The policeman stayed with them up to the reception desk. A clerk in a starched white uniform glanced up from a sheaf of papers and cocked his head. "Can I help you, Sir?"

Chuck sighed and blinked, his mouth open but unable to speak, the moment crushing down on him. Sandra squeezed his arm gently and he started up. "Yes, I'm... my father was attacked. Stephen Bartowski."

"I believe he's in the surgical wing," The clerk said. "I remember when he was brought in. It's just down the east hallway and—" As the man was speaking a dour man in a similar uniform walked up to the desk.

"Death certificate for that chap they just brought in, I need to get the paperwork started."

Chuck closed his eyes against the glare of light burning his eyes from all directions. The clerk talked out the side of his mouth, the whole time his colleague spoke, trying to tell him to cork it, but to no avail. Finally he took on an expression of embarrassed anguish and opening his mouth again. "Mr. Bartowski, I'm sorry, but. You have my condolences." The newcomer seemed to catch on quickly, now that it was in the open and froze, started shrinking in on himself. He apologized profusely, but Chuck barely heard him. He barely heard anything. After an unknowable amount of time, he realized he was sitting on the cool hardwood flooring and the clerks and a couple of beefier looking men were talking at him.

The next part was always a little fuzzy in Chuck's memory. All he could remember of going into the room with his father's body, paying this one last courtesy, was that Sandra had stayed with him the whole time, whispering in his ear. Comforting words, but he barely heard them. The physical reality of her presence was all that mattered, without her, Chuck was sure he would have broken down. He wasn't at all sure that he hadn't anyway. Finally, he wasn't sure how much time later, they were ushered out. A clerk asked him about funeral arrangements, or started to, but Sandra cut him off at the knees with a blue-eyed glare and a reprimand to talk to him later. Outside, the reality of his father's death finally seeped in.

Chuck stopped in mid stride halfway down the stone stair. The waterfront was only a short way off, less than a quarter of a mile, and Chuck imagined he could smell the salt air from the docks. Pure fancy, of course, his nose wasn't that good, and why should that matter anyway? The oddest things could happen when your world was falling down around you. "He's gone," Chuck said, as if he'd known it all along, or if it was just now a possibility to be marveled at. Either one, both, how could he tell. "He's gone and I don't know what to do now."

Her fingers were cool on his face, but her eyes were unreadable, a puzzle in want of solving, but could he really afford that luxury. His father was dead. The weight of it tried to crush him there on the hospital steps, but her eyes held him. "You move forward, just as he would have," She said, and for a brief instant he could read her eyes. She'd suffered this same loss, her father had died, and it had left indelible marks on her soul, forged her, but not broken her. Chuck blinked, breaking the spell an instant before he opened his mouth to ask her about it. He barely knew her, they'd only met earlier that morning. The thought was like a drop of water on white hot steel, exploding through his brain.

"How," was what came out, before he stopped himself from asking how her father had passed, knowledge he had no right to.

She shrugged, "We'll just have to play it by ear."

That made him smile, weakly, but still a smile. "We?"

Sandra blushed, her eyes flashed in that odd, conflicted way he was getting accustomed to. "Come on, the coach is still waiting."

Chuck frowned and tore his eyes away from hers, she was right. The coach Roark had hired was still waiting, though the driver seemed to be flicking his whip impatiently. Not snapping it, or the horse would have burst into a trot, or at least a walk, Chuck was hopeless as far as horses went, but still not far from giving the whole thing up as a bad idea. Wordlessly, he nodded, and let her lead the way.

Sandra tried to push him up into the Coach ahead of her, but Chuck wasn't completely lost to chivalry, and he insisted on helping her up before clambering in himself. The policeman was nowhere to be found now that Chuck had been to see his father. Shouldn't there be some investigation? Some follow-up? More puzzles, but he was still muddled with grief. Sandra said something sharp, carrying up to the driver, and they lurched into motion again.

* * *

Bryce was kept waiting at the Roberts' front door while a hired man went in to check to make certain young Miss Roberts was accepting visitors. It took longer than he'd expected, but that was pretty much standard with the Roberts family. They weren't like the Cabots or the Emersons or the Endicotts, the so-called First Families, who'd been there from the very start, helped build the city as they built their wealth year by year and brick by brick. Mustrum Roberts had made his fortune war profiteering, supplying cannons or steam engines or some such during the war between the states.

It wasn't something he thought about, not often at any rate. But Conrad Larkin might have lost his leg at the hands of Roberts' manufacture. His leg and his life, if the doctors were to be believed, shrapnel from the wound he'd taken at Chancellorsville had eventually poisoned him, though he'd had time to father Bryce before succumbing. He only had vague memories of the man, a loud drunk, who'd beaten his mother, probably as a means of compensating for his lack of a leg. All in all, maybe he should have been grateful for the lead shot stuck in his father's chest by a misplaced volley of Union artillery. Stephen Bartowski's one foible, as far as Bryce could see was his judgment in picking his friends. When Conrad had died, and his mother followed shortly after, most likely from syphyllis, her wretch of a husband, and Bryce's wretch of a father's parting 'gift,' Stephen had been there, rescuing him from the orphanage after only hours. Before the older boys could do more than black his eye.

The Roberts' hired help's propensity for rudeness let Bryce linger over the accident of fate that saw him friends with the heir to the fortune that had killed his father, and saved Bryce from his abuse. If he ever really stopped to think on it, and he tried not to, Bryce was quite uncertain what he was supposed to feel for Jill, in particular. When the hired man finally deigned allow him entry, Bryce grinned a small grin, more feral than anything. To hell with what he was supposed to feel, she deserved to know another had caught Chuck's eye.

She'd been quite candid the last time they spoke, about that 'certain watchmaker's son,' and if Jill was going to get her heart broken, it might as soon be now as six months from now. Still and all, he felt wretched bringing this news down on her. The hired man, a butler, Bryce supposed was the term, took his Bowler and his overcoat, and led him through a thoroughly ostentatious entry hall to an opulent parlor. He priced out the chair the man motioned him into at half Bryce's yearly salary. He shook his head, wondering if Chuck was truly smitten enough with the lovely Miss Bower to ignore the possibilities of such a match. It was crude of him, he knew, but Bryce had no illusions about his own character. Given the option, he'd much rather marry for money than love. Chuck was just the opposite, and it was perhaps the most endearing thing about him.

Bryce stood on the instant, when the door opened to admit his best friend in the world apart from his adopted brother. She smiled, and it made her dark eyes glisten like polished stones. "Bryce!" She turned back into the hallway for a moment to shout. "You never said it was Mr. Larkin, Fredricks! You might have said."

"Sorry to inconvenience you," Bryce said, with his customary smirk pasted on. It was a little feebler than usual, and he could feel it, mostly because of why he was here.

She brushed that away and sat on a chaise lounge across from the heavily gilded chair he'd been shown to. Jill gestured for him to sit. "I just... should have tidied up a little better. I must look a fright."

Bryce rolled his eyes and leaned over the back of the expensive chair. "You look beautiful, as always, there's no need to go fishing."

Her laugh tinkled like crystal and she tapped a finger against her cheek. "Flattery, Mr. Larkin? I had thought you'd given up?"

"Just the truth," He said with a shrug. "But that's not why I'm here."  
"Do tell," Jill said, smiling at him disconcertingly.

"It's Chuck," He said, letting it all out in a rush. "Your 'watchmaker's son' has his eyes on another woman. I'm not sure he even realizes yet, how well and truly he's caught. But I thought if you wanted to be on an even footing, if you were going to try to fight for him, you should know."

She arched an eyebrow and the smile grew a little. "Well, good for him."

Bryce blinked, completely taken off guard. "Huh. I... what?"

Jill stood and rolled her eyes, closed the distance so that she had to look up at him, though their heights were near enough the same. "When I said 'watchmaker's son' I wasn't referring to Chuck. I was playing coy, Mr. Larkin," She said with a smirk that mirrored his own customary grin. "I thought you of all people would have seen that."

He scrambled for words, for a course of action to follow. His world had just been turned on its ear. Jill inched ever closer, turning her head and parting her lips slightly as if expecting... Bryce felt his breath catch in his throat, and he couldn't think what to do to get his lungs to fill themselves back up again.

"Miss Roberts, I just heard the most horrible—" The housekeeper stopped in mid-thought. "My goodness, I'm so sorry Miss. I didn't know you had..._ company_."

Jill took a large step back, peering up through her eyelashes at him, before huffing out an exasperated sigh. "I'm sure whatever it is can wait?"

"I suppose Mr. Larkin has already told you."

That brought Jill and Bryce both up short, wearing similar puzzled frowns. "Suppose I haven't. What is it that's so horrible?"

"Oh, then you don't know. I'm so sorry, Mr. Larkin," The housekeeper seemed to shrink in upon herself. "I... Mr. Bartoski was as fine a man as ever I heard tell of. But I heard it from Mrs. Figg who's just down the road from your store. Mr. Stephen, he..."

Bryce forced his eyes shut tight. "No," he breathed. "Please God."

"He's dead." Bryce was out the door before he really registered the words. He'd known something was wrong as soon as the woman had showed her face. Rage and grief turned his usual smirk into something horrible, something sinister. Jill's housekeeper hadn't said it, but there was no other explanation. Someone had murdered his second father, and he was going to get to the bottom of it. And somebody was going to pay.

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: There will probably be another update soonish on this story. Don't expect any Casey for awhile, if that's your thing. Action will be heating up a little.

And for those of you waiting for an update on Chuck and Sarah Vs Themselves, the next chapter is in beta right now, so expect an update there too before long.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Okay! Here we go! Getting into the stuff right here!

Chapter 3: The Journal

All in all, it was a pleasant ride. Chuck marveled a little at that, on the ride back to the premises of 'Bartowski and Son'—now sadly reduced to 'and Son'—marveled that he could find pleasure in anything at all this day, but Sandra was there, pressed against his side, her arm looped around his waist. That alone could probably put a smile on his face with the world ending, mildly inappropriate as it was for two people who had just met. They didn't talk much, Sandra seemed to have an uncanny knack at guessing his moods, and as the hackney bounced through the streets, slowly their hands crawled along the leather seat. At first they merely hooked pinkies, but Sandra's fingers slipping gently against his spurred him on, until they laced their fingers together fully. She squeezed his hand in gentle reassurance and sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. It felt more than good; it felt right, as if some part of the horror and chaos of the day had fallen away, or as if a rather large piece of a puzzle had snapped into place.

The coach juddered to a halt and the driver spat a gob of tobacco juice into the macadam of the street. Chuck and Sandra glanced at each other, and their eyes caught. She leaned in, lips parted slightly, and Chuck could feel the deep blue wells of her eyes pulling him inexorably down into them. "Oy! We're here!"

Chuck straightened with a jerk, and they pulled apart immediately. Sandra blinked in consternation, and then blushed slightly. Chuck frowned and shook his head to clear his thoughts. It was a full three seconds before he remembered they were still holding hands, and even then, it was only because Sandra gave his fingers another gentle reassuring squeeze. The door flipped open at his touch, and Chuck leaped to the ground as if trying to escape, tearing his hand free. Sandra looked down at him, a hurt look marring her features. That wasn't his intention, and Chuck winced, held his hand out to help her down again.

The odd moment passed as if it had never been, she flashed him a toothy grin that made his heart melt and they walked toward the storefront. The sign, proclaiming 'Bartowski and Son' sliced through him. It would have to be changed, if he was going to keep it open. That was a new thought. Chuck closed his eyes and dug in his coat pocket for the house keys. Sandra's hand on his wrist brought him out of his reverie.

"Did you leave the door unlocked?" she said in a hoarse whisper. This city bustled around them, and the sound of the hackney coach driver shouting to his team as he pulled back into the flow of traffic, muscling past pedestrians. He remembered when he was a child, his father would take him out, putting him up on his shoulders as they walked the streets. Chuck's father would point out things, architecture: the way buildings were structured so that they stood up, the processes behind the macadam streets that they walked, the little details that everyone always overlooked.

Everything reminded him of his father. Chuck blinked and looked more intently at the door. It was open several inches, with a dusting of wood splinters fanned down the frame where the deadbolt had been torn loose. "No," he said, and shook his head. "I always lock it..."

Sandra produced a .45 caliber derringer from her handbag, the little pistol smaller than the palm of her hand, looked out of place in her hand. Because she held the gun, and herself with such poise, Chuck thought the derringer looked almost silly; too small by half. He shook himself, took a step toward her, and plucked the derringer from her hand.

"Hey!" she snapped. "What are you doing?"

"It's my home," Chuck said. "I should be the one to make certain the thieves have fled."

Sandra pouted briefly, and then a thought came to her. "Do you even know how to fire a gun?"

He shrugged. "I just squeeze this little metal bit here, don't I?"

Her eyebrows went up. "I really don't think you should—" But Chuck was already starting up the steps. Sandra rolled her eyes and grunted, and followed. Chuck stopped at the door to glance over his shoulder.

"Wait here," he said. Sandra gave him a very level look, then arched one eyebrow and produced a second derringer from God knows where. The movement by which she retrieved it was too fast for him to follow. Chuck swallowed. They were getting worked up for nothing. No criminal in their right mind would have stayed inside. Whoever it had been had smashed a display case full of gold pocket watches and run off long since.

Chuck inched forward and nudged the door open, it swung halfway open before the top hinge gave out and the door hung crazily in the portal, wedging itself to a stop. It took a hard shove to dislodge it, and the door snapped back with a clatter against the far wall. He winced and tried to grab the door, but he still had Sandra's derringer in his fist, and he just made it worse, banging the door with his hand and stumbling in his haste. Chuck fetched up against a broken display case, only just missing slicing himself open on the shards of glass. Sandra grabbed the back of his coat and helped to steady him; they took in a scene straight from bedlam.

Over-turned and shattered display cases made a maze of broken glass, splintered wood across the tongue and groove flooring. The old persian rug Stephen Bartowski had brought home from his travels after the war was bunched up in the corner carelessly, with large rents in the fabric, possibly where it was torn out from under the display cases. A debris-field of the former contents of the ruined cases stretched lengthwise across the chamber, with the silk cushions the watches had been laid out on split open by a blade of some kind. It didn't make sense, jumbled as the picture was. It was impossible to tell how much was missing, if anything. Chuck glanced around, trying to do a mental inventory, but the order of the shop was too disrupted, case-clocks tumbled to the floor amid shattered glass and bent gold and silver and steel.

"Oh my God, Chuck," Sandra said as she took in the carnage. "Can you tell what they took?"

He shook his head mutely, too stunned by everything to really process what he was looking at. His father was dead, and now this, all in one day. It was too much. And then it got worse.

"I think the pair of you had better drop those little girly guns," a man said as he came out of the kitchen. He had a sawed-off lever action gun of some kind. Chuck couldn't place it, but the yawning gap of the barrel looked too big for a rifle. He froze, derringer forgotten and another man came out behind the first, a revolver of some kind in hand. "I said drop it," the first man said, and extended his gun in Chuck's direction. "Both of you."

The second spoke for the first time. "Hand over the journal and we'll let you live."

There was a loud crack, concussion next to Chuck's ear, almost deafening, and red exploded out of the first man's arm at the elbow. His gun went spinning away, and then something hit Chuck in the back, taking him straight to the floor. He realized a moment later, it was Sandra, her weight pressing into his back. The man with the revolver dove aside, and the air was split again. Wood chips and tiny scraps of wallpaper burst from the wall behind the man. He rolled and came up to his feet in stride, running for the door. Chuck's mind reeled with the rush of violence, unable to catch up with what was going on around him. Someone was tugging at his fingers. "Chuck, give me the gun," Sandra grated, and he felt her fingers cool against his hand; he let go of the derringer, and felt a knee press into his back, keeping him down. The first man had recovered his weapon, and spun, gun extended in his left hand. Sandra's second derringer barked twice, and blood bloomed on his chest. Chuck closed his eyes tight against the image, but couldn't blot it out of his memory.

He shook with the horror of it, and eventually realized the knee pressing him into thefloor was gone. His eyes came open, to stare at the pool of blood expanding under the man. Sandra's voice brought him back to himself. "Chuck. I need you to listen to me."

He blinked half a dozen times, coming up to his feet with her aid. It took a moment for him to focus on her. She looked as she ever had, though there was a tightness to her face that hadn't been there before, her eyes held a sadness that he hadn't noticed before, but Chuck realized it had always been there, the attack had just brought it out to the surface. "What," he mumbled. "What happened?"

"Chuck, listen," she said, fixing him in place with her eyes. Sandra pressed the derringer back into his hand. "You killed him."

"What, no I didn't," he protested. Then a realization. "You saved my life."

"Shhh," She murmured, finger touching his lips, soothing. "And now you have to help me. A man protecting his home from thieves is one thing, but it will be suspicious if you say I shot him," She hesitated, as if... he couldn't decide what, just something odd about the pause. The answer snapped into place. She was about to lie to him, and she hated herself for it. Or maybe something else; he couldn't be sure. "I need you to protect me now. It will draw attention I cannot afford. My father wasn't like yours. He was a bad man, and if the police look into me... I'm sorry to put this on you, but."

"Don't," Chuck heard himself say. "Don't apologize. I shot him. Of course I did. Was the derringer mine as well?"

She smiled weakly and nodded. They could hear the policeman's whistle in the street. Then another gunshot, far away. The second man firing at a pursuing officer? Or the police shooting at him? Another shot, a third, then more whistles.

Chuck looked intently at Sandra again, marvelling at her calm demeanor. She was handling the incident far better than he. It took him a moment to understand his own thoughts. He'd referred to it as 'the incident' a cold and antiseptic to talk about nearly being gunned down in his own home, especially so soon after the fact. Maybe he was in shock, yes, that must be it. Another puzzle solved. The police arrived shortly, shouting and stomping around on the wreckage of 'Bartowski and Son,' Sandra explained in halting sentences what had occurred, and Chuck merely nodded along at the appropriate points.

It was nearly an hour before the inspector arrived, a narrow balding man with dark hair and dark eyes, and a pompous carriage to his walk. "I'm Lieutenant Inspector Milbarge," He said, glancing around. His eyes took in everything.

"Sandra Bower," She said, and extended her hand. The inspector took her hand and kissed the back. His eyes narrowed and darted up to her face.

"And you must be Mr. Bartowski, the titular 'Son' I suppose?" Milbarge said.

Chuck nodded vaguely, though the reminder of his father's death tore at a scab that hadn't ever been allowed to heal, even if shock had forced it from his mind. "Yes, we were just at the hospital, my father—"

"Yes, yes. I'm aware. My condolences on your loss," Milbarge said. There was something oily about his voice that Chuck found distasteful in the extreme. "You can see how this looks of course. One Bartowski gunned down, one Bartowski gunning down another man, all with the the span of four hours. I mean no disrespect, but it seems likely the two are linked."

Sandra bristled, "Just what are you implying, Sir? I'll not stand for it. Charles saved my life, both our lives."

Milbarge opened his mouth to reply, when a commotion outside interrupted.

"I demand to know what's going on in there," Bryce's voice cut through the babble of voices. "Chuck, are you alright?"

Milbarge turned to the door, "Let him in, let him in. Maybe he can shed some light on this," he said, and the patrolman led Bryce in, one hand holding the shoulder of his coat in an iron grip. "And who might you be?"

Chuck found his voice at last. "Bryce Larkin, my father's ward. I don't know if he's even heard about—"

"I was at Jill's," he explained. "God, I couldn't believe it. Do they know who... what the devil? Who's this dead man here!"

Milbarge tapped his chin with a finger in thought. "That's exactly what I intend to find out," his eyes flitted around the shop, from Bryce to Chuck, to Sandra, back. It put Chuck in mind of a rat, but there was an intelligence at work behind those eyes, vicious and petty as it was. He really could not make himself like the man. "I will get to the bottom of this, Mr. Bartowski, mark my words."

He pestered the three of them with questions, and Chuck answered as best he could, keeping to Sandra's story. Bryce made an incredulous sound when he learned that Chuck had shot and killed a man, but when Milbarge turned to him, he merely shrugged and kept silent. At last the inquisition was over. "Hmm... something is at play here. But, nevertheless, I find no fault in your actions here, Mr. Bartowski. The other man has fled, though Patrolman Elridge insists he may have grazed the man." Milbarge tucked his little notebook away and shrugged. "At any rate, I'll leave a man here. Do an inventory to see if anything is missing, and he will file the report with my office in the morning. He tipped an imaginary cap vaguely in Sandra's direction and left.

"Odious man," Sandra whispered. Chuck supposed it was meant to be under her breath, but he found himself fighting a grin somehow.

"I'm so sorry about all of this," Chuck said. "I never meant for you to be involved in—"

Sandra cut him off with a finger to his lips. "Shh... none of this is your fault. Do not apologize."

Bryce grinned from behind Sandra's back and winked at Chuck. He gave a thumbs up.

Chuck cleared his throat. "Anyway. Without father, I don't know that the investment opportunity will still be—"

She rolled her eyes and 'Shh-ed' him again. "Don't be silly, Chuck. I wish we could have met under different circumstances as well, but life never gives anyone exactly what they wish." Something in that made her smile sadly, and she bit her lip. After a moment's contemplation, Sandra dipped into her little leather and blue needlepoint handbag, produced a tiny square of cardstock and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. "I'll expect to hear from you when things are more settled. If I'm not there, you can leave word with my landlady. I need to see you again, I don't mean to be overly forward. You've suffered a terrible loss, and I'm sure the last thing on your mind is... but, I—" She seemed to struggle with herself for a moment longer, then went up on her toes and gave him a brief peck on the cheek. Sandra swept out without another word, even when she had to pause for Bryce to get out of her way.

Chuck stood stock-still, utterly confused for a long, awkward moment after her departure. The room seemed dimmer somehow, but that was nonsense. Bryce's grin faded as the enormity of the day's events seemed finally to seep into him. "God," he said at last to the empty room but for him and Chuck and the ruins of their stock in trade. "What a day. Have you checked, is the upstairs like this as well?"

He shrugged. "The police went upstairs, one of them said something. I believe it is."

Bryce sighed. "We might as well get started cleaning up."

Chuck nodded numbly. It took them long into the night to catalog everything; all the damaged stock, and display cases. But miraculously, nothing was missing. Even in the upstairs, though his worktable was swept clean and his drawers turned out on the floor, neither Chuck nor Bryce could find anything that was missing. At last they sent the policeman away. Chuck fretted a little what Milbarge would make of the lack of thievery. Bryce volunteered to check Stephen's room, but Chuck insisted. He very nearly made the mistake of saying 'he was _my _father,' but he stopped himself. Bryce seemed to hear the words anyway, but he merely smiled sadly, and it looked so like the smile Sandra had worn in speaking of her own father, that he nearly asked for forgiveness.

Stephen Bartowski's room had doubled as a study, workshop, laboratory, and there was just as much broken glass and crockery and bits of twisted metal as there was in Chuck's workshop. Chuck went over to the desk and sat heavily. He wept, briefly, in silence, and when he'd cried himself out, he stood to look for a broom.

Sweeping was relatively mindless and let him put his swirling thoughts to rest. He swept the wreckage into a series of small piles, leaving under the desk for last. Chuck stuffed the broom head under the desk, trying to get all of the broken glass from the empty oil-lamp that Stephen had been trying to fix before the break-in. The broom snagged on something, tugging at the skin of Chuck's palms. He thought nothing of it at first, but a second stroke tugged in the same way. He frowned and looked down, making sure the floor was clear of glass shards before he knelt and put his head under the desk. It was dim under the desk, with his bulk blocking most of the light from the lantern hanging from the wall by the door, but he could see where the straw from the broom had pulled out. Several sticks of straw were trapped between two of the floorboards.

Chuck felt his eyes narrow. He fished in his pocket briefly for his pocket knife, snapped it open and stuck the blade between the floorboards. Wiggling the blade managed, after half a minute, to dislodge one of the boards, and Chuck put the knife down. He stuck his finger in the gap and tugged, revealing a small cubby, pitch black in the dimness. The leather cover of a small book met his fingertips when he plunged his hand in. Chuck felt around, and found a second cover with his hand. He tugged both free and held them to the light.

Simple leatherbound journals, much like the one Milbarge the police Inspector had used, but worn with use. The words of the second robber, the one who'd slipped away came back to him, echoing over and over. 'Hand over the journal and we'll let you live.' Chuck's hands shook as he opened the first journal. In his father's hand, he found the title page.

**Property of Stephen J. Bartowski.**

**Technical Journal Vol 114: **

**Notes concerning the theoretical basis **

**of the Tesseract Lens.**

His throat felt dry. Chuck's mind spun and clanked like a steam engine, working at the problem faster than he could have expected. The first policeman's words: two men accosted his father in the street, killing him. Later that same day. Two men broke into the store. This was what they were after. This journal. This is what his father had died for. Chuck closed the first journal and his heart was hammering in his chest. Just the words 'tesseract lens' sent a chill down his spine. The second journal was a near twin to the first. Save for one difference.

**Technical Journal Vol. 115: **

**Notes concerning the construction and operation **

**of the ****Tesseract Engine.**

Chuck felt bile in his throat. It was a bad joke. A tesseract was a mere theoretical construct, a four dimensional object, when reality was made up only of three. The chill was back, his nerves shot all to hell. His father had died for a joke. But, something in the pit of his stomach told him something else entirely. He swallowed back the bile and closed the second journal.

He crossed over to the door and grabbed the lantern, before returning to the desk. He read until the lantern burned out, then he refilled the lantern and read some more. Chuck read and read, on into the early hours of the morning, as if a fever had taken him. Finally exhaustion pulled him down and he slept with his face pressed into the journal. He dreamed a nightmare landscape of fiction straight out of Jules Vern. And when he woke, he was sick with mortal dread of what his father had wrought.

TO BE CONTINUED...

A/N: Let me know what you think. This story needs input, so please review.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Now we're cooking with gas! This story's moving along nicely. And I've got a few chapters of my other story, (insert shameless plug here:) _Chuck & Sarah vs Themselves, _in with my Beta reader. Thanks for the reviews, everybody. I know this one's a little (read 'super') weird. The Sci-fi aspects of this story are coming to the fore.

A note for my fellow English Lit Nerds: All the recurring mentions of 'Bartowski and Son' _are_ in fact a reference to my least favorite Dickens novel, _Dombey and Son_. It's awful. But I love that title, and the cold dread I got every time he'd come back and hit that note: _Dombey and Son_. Go read it if you don't believe me. I dare you. (Don't actually read _Dombey and Son_ unless you have to for a class. Seriously. Even if somebody dares you.)

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck... or any of the characters herein, nor do I get any money whatsoever from writing this.

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Chapter 4: The Savant

"Hey, Chuck," A voice murmured. "Wake up, my friend."

Chuck shuddered and pushed himself off his father's desk. "Wha— Bryce?"

"That would be me," he said. "Are you okay? It's almost noon. I was getting worried when you weren't in your room," Bryce cocked his head to one side. "What have you got there?"

"Those men, yesterday," Chuck said once he gathered himself. "One of them said—they were looking for father's journal."

Bryce nodded thoughtfully. "You think they were the same men who killed father," he said.

"Yes."

"They killed him for what's in those journals?" Bryce said. "What could be in there that's worth killing a man over?"

"How much do you know about his work with Mr. Roark?" Chuck said, and closed the journal.

"Not much, that's more your thing, remember?" Bryce leaned on the edge of the desk. "What is it, you're pale as a bloody ghost?"

"You know how I'm always saying, father is—was a genius?" Chuck asked. At Bryce's nod and impatient gesture, he continued. "I was wrong. He isn't—damn me, he _wasn't—_ a mere genius. He was a savant."

"I don't understand, what's the difference?"

"A genius, let's say, is a Tesla or an Edison. One of them comes along maybe twice, three times in a generation," Chuck's voice shook, and he took a moment to steady himself. "If the figures are right... and it will take me hours, maybe days, to do the calculations. Father was a genius among geniuses. I don't know how to describe it, other than... a savant. He—" Chuck broke off, then went on in a calmer tone. "People say Edison and Tesla are men ahead of their time. Father truly _was_... these schematics of his, I don't know that the tools exist to build such a thing. He'd have had to build the tools to build the tools to build the thing... That's where all the spring steel kept disappearing to; he was making the tools."

"I don't care about spring steel, Chuck. Start at the beginning. What is it? What was he building with Roark?" Bryce said gently. "Why was he killed?"

"I don't... these things... they're beyond me. I have to read more before I can say with any certainty," Chuck said. He flipped pages and shook his head, still somewhat in awe of what he'd learned.

"We don't need certainty yet," Bryce said. "The man you shot, I recognized him."

"What?" Chuck blurted. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I don't trust that Inspector Milbarge any farther than I could throw him. Little milksop though he might be," Bryce said. "He worked for Roark."

"Who, Milbarge?" Chuck said, trying to catch up.

"No, this man who was after father's journal," Bryce said. "The man you shot."

"Sandra shot," Chuck corrected without thinking. Bryce's eyes widened.

"An astounding woman, our Miss Bower," Bryce mused. "She's involved somehow."

"Don't you speak ill of her," Chuck said.

Bryce put up his hands defensively. "I don't mean to," he said. "But it's suspicious. She was to be an investor, father never really said in what. We assumed it was in the store. Maybe it was in this mystery device he was building. This engine you're in such awe of. Don't you feel the oddness of it all, the weight of events?"

"No," Chuck said. "Not her, not Sandra."

"You _just_ met the woman, Charles," Bryce protested.

"I concede the timing is a little off..." he said, "But she isn't involved like you're suggesting. If you'd seen the way she looked at me in the hospital. No."

Bryce sighed, but finally shrugged. "Alright. As you say. What of the other thing?"

"It makes a kind of sense," Chuck said as if the words were being dragged out of him. "The plans father was delivering. They were a prototype..."

Bryce picked up one of the journals. "A prototype. Of what? This Tesseract Engine thing?"

"No, I don't... Bryce, you're asking for the answers to questions I can barely put my mind around. I read this journal cover to cover, and I understood maybe one word in three. The formulas, the schematics, it's all decades beyond the _scope_ of current scientific thought. Maybe more than that."

Bryce crossed his arms. "So what did father take to Roark yesterday before he was killed? Didn't he show you?"

"I think it was the drive-train for this engine. It's heart... according to the notes, it's a sort of programmable mechanical calculator..." he said. "That was what he showed me, the patents from that alone would have made us millions; it would revolutionize cryptography, a hundred other fields I could name off the top of my head," Chuck said, and shook his head. "I should start from the beginning. The Tesseract Lens as father called it. His theories on the nature of light, and time and space... If he's right—"

"And you think he is," Bryce said slowly.

"Yes. If he's right, nothing with mass can move faster than light. And the speed of light is a constant, that he derived using all those mirrors he bought last spring."

"But all the scientists agree—" he cut off when Chuck arched an eyebrow. "Okay, I get it. Go on. Wait, my physics is six years old, but everything has mass, yes?"

"Not according to father's theories. I don't really understand it myself. But that's all beside the point, revolutionary as it is. He posits that time is the fourth dimension. There are equations backing up all of this... Do you remember what a Tesseract is from college?"

"A cube rotated through four dimensions, yes? But purely theoretical... because... there are only three..." Bryce's eyes widened. "Rotated through... time? Father built a machine to travel through _time_?"

"No," Chuck said, shaking his head. "That's beyond the scope of these journals, and I don't even know if it's possible. He built a... a time telescope. A window into the future, or maybe one possible future. I don't know, maybe all possible futures. But it's incomplete. The last twenty pages of the journal are missing. Torn out. He realized the dangers of what he was building; that must be it. Its the only explanation. Even without that final piece, this journal is..." Chuck frowned and picked up the first journal, just the theories. "The theories themselves, the equations alone. Men would kill to possess these things. Nations would fight wars. A hundred wars, just to claim a monopoly on these ideas. I understood a bare third of the things I read, and_ still_ it feels as if the top of my head has come clean off. The foundations of science, of physics that I thought I knew. It's all standing on its ear, now."

"Hold on a moment, Charles," Bryce said. "He changed his mind, you said."

"Did you hear a word I said?" Chuck demanded angrily. "This journal is priceless. A century's worth of scientific advancement that father built out of whole cloth, straight out of his head, and—"

"And someone's killed him because of it!" Bryce said angrily.

Chuck nodded vaguely. "Yes, but the police will—"

"Milbarge?" Bryce spat. "You trust him to go after a man like Roark? No!"

"Wait, Roark?" Chuck said. "What does any of this have to do with Mr. Roark? He was _helping _father."

"The men who broke in," Bryce said. "The one you— or Sandra if that's her real name— the dead man. That's where I remember him from. He was with Roark. A bodyguard or some such. He always had the pair of them with him. If father changed his mind about building the machine, this Tesseract Engine, and you're right about the value of father's discoveries?" His voice was dark with emotion. "What wouldn't he do to recover them? It's the only thing that fits. Ted Roark killed our father, as good as if he pulled the trigger himself."

A cold rush of anger swept through Chuck, along with a sense of purpose. Puzzle pieces clicking into place. Bryce was right. He stood up and went to the closet, pulled down a lacquerware box and set it on the desk. The key was still in the lock, and Chuck opened it. Sitting on the black cushion, along with a box of brass primer caps and .44 caliber lead minie style balls and a powder horn, was Stephen Bartowski's Remington 1862 New Model Army revolver. The weight of it in his hand felt foreign, but the moving parts were a reassuring mechanistic comfort. Chuck didn't know exactly what he was doing, but he fiddled with the gun wordlessly, until the puzzle came clear. He pulled the hammer back to half-cock, brought down the loading lever and pulled the cylinder pin forward until there was a faint click. The heavy steel cylinder came free in his hand, and Chuck bounced it gently on his palm before setting it on the desk, ready for loading. "You're right of course, Bryce," Chuck said. "I should see to it myself. I'll expect you to explain things to Miss Bower if I do not return."

"Don't be stupid, Chuck," Bryce said, putting a restraining hand on his wrist. "You're far from stupid, don't be absurd. You can't—"

"You'll not stop me Bryce. You said yourself, Milbarge would never go after a man of Roark's wealth and status," Chuck said. "I _will_ see justice done."

Bryce's lips turned up in his customary grin, but there was a feral, vicious quality to it that Chuck had never noticed before. "You quite misunderstand me, Chuck. You'd be stupid to think I could tell Miss Bower anything at all if you don't come back," Bryce chuckled darkly. "Because I'm going with you. He'll have to kill us both to stop 'Bartowski and Son'."

* * *

Bryce took a hacksaw to the barrel of Stephen Bartowski's double barreled shotgun, removing the first foot or so. Not all the way down to the forward wood grip, but enough that he could hide it easily beneath his overcoat. He kept the stock, as he wasn't sure exactly how much worse the recoil would be. Sandra had left one of her derringers behind to sell the story that Chuck had shot the intruder with his own weapon. Bryce made a trip out to a local gunsmith for powder and cartridge paper so that Chuck could load his father's revolver. It had sat in its box on the top shelf of the closet for so long that the paper had become brittle enough to split when Chuck tried to wrap the powder and bullet together into a cartridge. Bryce also bought a box of 12-gauge buckshot shells and the .45 caliber metal cartridges for Sandra's derringer.

Once Chuck had loaded the gun, he sat with it in his hands at his father's desk and frowned to himself. The idea of revenge was foreign to him, much less the thought of killing a man, but as soon as Bryce had named Roark, he'd known his foster brother was correct. They had to confront him, kill him perhaps. They didn't have any proper evidence, but Bryce knew, and Chuck knew. Milbarge was a paper tiger; even if they tried to involve him, Roark could reach out to the jury pool with hardly a second thought, if it even went that far. They had to take action themselves. But still, he thought to himself, it was a selfish desire. The most selfish thing a man could do, killing another. But it was a matter of honor. Still and all, there had to be something else they could do. There had to be.

He pulled the drawer open and took out his father's journal once more. Chuck opened it to the last page before the final twenty or so were torn loose and lost. There was a flap he just noticed now, on the back cover of the journal, and wedged in under it, a scrap of paper, a loose page of something. It started without any preamble, without even a greeting. His father had known that whoever would read this had already gone through the whole of the journal. Chuck shook his head and read on.

* * *

** _If formed properly in the magnetic field created by the oscillating tesla coil, _**_**the lens should take on the shape of a cubic window into the trackless, infinite future. What would one see I wonder? What secrets could remain hidden from a man with such a wonder at his fingers? But the dangers, my God the dangers! How could I have overlooked them? Could even **_**I**_** resist the temptation? I only wished to look upon my dear departed wife once more, but what I have wrought instead? My God what have I done? Can I risk anyone knowing of this infernal machine? Even with the engine built to proper specifications, the rush of data could destroy a man's mind. Kill him outright, or drive him mad. A madman with all the knowledge of mankind at his fingertips? Can I live with that risk? Roark insists the risk is minimal, but I can almost taste his desperation. His thirst for knowledge is the same as mine, but at the same time there is something darker in him. I fear I've shared too much with him. Even without the last drawings, he might be able to finish the work. Or think that he has. A failed attempt to start the machine could be disastrous. All my work is mere theory, but if I am correct, the slightest misalignment could... I have not the words.**_

_**

* * *

**_Then a space, where he had obviously stopped and come back to the letter.

_**I've done the calculations. The consequences would be dire, if I am correct. That much I know. And I'm always correct. If you're reading this, Charles, most likely I am dead. I have no illusions. I know if I'm dead, you and Bryce have more than likely figured out that Roark has killed me. A miscalculation. His desperation must have been greater than I thought. Bryce will undoubtedly wish to take his vengeance. I must insist before you make the attempt, that you burn my journals, and make the attempt to destroy our prototype along with my killer. Vengeance is not the path I would wish you to take, either of you, but you are men grown, and I know, Bryce, that your temper will likely spell the end of Theodore Roark. But I beg of you Charles, Bryce, destroy my work where I have failed. The world is not ready for my inventions. **_

_**Any of them.**_

_**I only regret that I could not make my peace with your sister before the end. **_

_** Your loving father,**_

_** Stephen J. Bartowski**_

**

* * *

**

Chuck smiled in appalled wonder. He had been thinking along the same lines himself, though perhaps not in those same terms. But no sign of how to destroy the machine, if Roark even had the thing built. He checked the back side of the parchment his father's final missive was scrawled upon, and shook his head. Chuck flipped back through the journal, looking for the dimensions, for just how large the machine would be. At least twenty feet tall, perhaps fifteen to a side, if the power transformers and the steam engine to drive them were kept separate. It couldn't fit inside their house, but Mr. Roark's mansion... It was a definite possibility.

That left how to get in, how to stop the machine from functioning, even partially. And he realized, really felt it in his bones then, that this attempt could kill him. Likely would kill him. The forces at work to form the lens, catching the theoretical particles father called Temporyons, would be such that it could wipe a city block flat as if it had never been. Faster than light... if they took on so much as an atom of mass, the kinetic energy involved: mass times the square of the velocity over two. It was a horrifying number without so much as trying to calculate it. Just seeing the formula in his mind was enough. One hundred eighty six thousand _miles per second_. A new chill went through him and he shivered even in the warmth of his father's office. The sheer power of such a blast! Could he make himself walk into that, knowing? A rather large part of him screamed in the back of his head to rush across town, sweep up Sandra and run. _Run you fool! This is bigger than you!_ But no, he had to see it through.

Chuck grabbed his father's revolver in one hand. He scooped the journals up in the other and headed down the hall. Bryce's door was open and he sat at his desk, writing. Chuck knocked on the doorframe, and Bryce looked up. "What are you writing?" Chuck said.

Bryce's grin was forced. "A letter for Jill, in case... Well, even if we kill Roark and survive, you realize we're going to the gallows for this, yes? I want her to know why."

Chuck frowned in thought, studying his foster brother, beyond what he usually did. He felt horrible now, seeing him truly as he was. Bryce put on a show for everyone, the dashing rogue, but there was something in his eyes. Chuck berated himself silently for looking at Bryce like he was a puzzle, but he'd figured it out. "You're in love with her," Chuck said, as soon as the thought formed in his mind. He shook his head in disbelief. "Head over heels, with all the depths of your soul. That's why you could never settle down. I was idiotically besotted, but too timid to make a try of it. And you tried to stand aside for me. I should have seen it earlier. I'm so sorry, Bryce, for what I put you through."

Bryce shook his head, slashed his hand through the air dismissively. "No. You knew her long before I met her. I should be apologizing for poaching," he grinned. "And I would, if not for the way you've been carrying on with the lovely Miss Bower." Chuck blushed and Bryce laughed good-naturedly. "Please, don't be embarrassed. We shouldn't be dickering over our love lives. We'll never have a chance to follow up anyway. You don't have to come, Chuck. I know your heart isn't really in this."

"I'm coming," Chuck said, and handed the letter to Bryce. "Its bigger than just getting back at Roark."

Bryce began to read, and his knuckles went white on the paper. His face followed suit soon after. "You think he's right? This machine could... what? Kill people?"

"If it isn't perfect?" Chuck asked. "It could kill hundreds. I just don't know how big the explosion would be. The math is too complicated. These temporyons of Father's are purely theoretical, there's no empirical data to refer to. A catastrophic failure of the machine could consume just Roark's mansion; it could take half the city. It could take everything from here to New York. Or just fizzle into nothing. They're all equally likely scenarios. There's no way to know until it's too late."

"So, you're in this to the end?" Bryce said.

"Yes," Chuck said. "No matter what. Roark can't start the machine. Killing him is secondary to destroying the machine. Finish your letter, I have one to write myself."

"What are you going to tell her?" Bryce asked. "Sandra would never understand half of it. _I_ don't understand half of it, and I have the advantage of being _raised _by the man. He built this thing under my nose. What can you tell her?"

Chuck shrugged; he didn't know that himself. What should he tell her, what could he tell her without putting her in danger? They'd only known each other a day, and she'd killed to protect him. She deserved to know the truth, even if it was bizarre. Even if she didn't believe it. "The truth," he said at last. Bryce nodded and put Stephen's letter down on the desk to finish his letter to Jill.

When Chuck finished his letter, explaining Roark's involvement, and as much of the other as he could bear to put on paper, Chuck collected Bryce's letter to Jill and stepped out briefly. He walked down to the telegraph office, in the early evening, with the sun casting everything in a golden brown glow. He hired one of the telegraph runners to deliver their letters and returned to the shop. Money was no longer a concern. They planned nearly til sunset, then Chuck went upstairs and sat at his workbench, toying with his watchmakers' tools. It was only minutes he sat staring, but it was all he could stand, before the enormity of the task before them crushed his fond memories of his mechanical puzzles. Bryce was waiting for him in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee. It was nearly time. "Last chance to back out, Chuck," Bryce said.

Chuck thought about it. "If I don't go, would you still go?" He said. "Would you make the attempt?"

Bryce nodded. "Of course. And so would you, if I backed out," the grin was back. "But I had to ask. Give you the chance to save yourself, live your life, have lots of beautiful blond children..."

Chuck laughed, but it was bitter and quiet, and he scooped the two journals from the sideboard and nodded to Bryce. They walked out the back door into what had been a shoeing yard or something back when Stanislas Bartowski's smithy had been 'Bartowski and Son.' Currently, it was bare dirt, with a couple patches of weeds and a decaying fence. A ramshackle woodshed that they hardly used anymore sat nearby. Inside, there was an old barrel with a couple of the staves giving way to dryrot, and the steel retaining bands rusting slowly away. It was full of hay that was probably something approaching Chuck's age, dry and perfect for kindling. Bryce carried the oil lantern. Chuck dropped the journals in and stepped back. "This feels like... should we say something? Swear a blood oath?"

"Impractical," Bryce said. "If we cut our palms or our fingers, we might have trouble shooting straight. But I'm not averse to a moment of silence, for father."

Chuck nodded, silence as assent. Bryce let it stretch out, twenty seconds or more, and then he nodded to himself grimly, and slammed the lantern down into the barrel. Glass shattered, slopping oil over everything. He patted his pockets and laughed aloud before turning to Chuck. "Do you have any matches?"

"No," Chuck snorted. "Kind of anti-climactic. I'll just— I'll be right back."

Once the little hitch of no-matches was taken care of, the lamp oil took with an audible whoosh of flame, and they watched while the fire ate the most priceless scientific treatise of the nineteenth century. Smoke made his eyes water, but he was near tears anyway. This was the only memorial for Stephen Bartoski that his sons would ever know. When the leather was charred and burning down to embers, Bryce emptied a bucket of water into the barrel to extinguish the flames. They staggered out leaning against each other, coughing from the smoke and steam that suddenly billowed up.

Chuck and Bryce only went back in the house briefly to retrieve their weapons. Chuck slipped his father's revolver in the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back and smoothed his coat over it. He put a fully charged and loaded spare cylinder in his coat pocket in case he had to reload. Unlikely in the extreme; one shot at close range from the .44 could put down any man alive if it was well aimed.

Bryce had bored a hole in the stock of his sawed-off and looped a leather cord through it, and then around his shoulder in a slip knot so that it hung at his side. He slipped into his overcoat and put Sandra's borrowed derringer in his left coat pocket, a handful of spare shotgun shells in the right. He shifted the folds of the coat to hide the bulge of the shotgun underneath. Then he snatched his bowler hat up from the table and rolled it between his hands for a moment. Bryce flicked his wrist so it spun up his arm. His hat hung in the air like a leaf on the wind for a split-second before he snatched it with his off-hand and fit it snugly to his head in one smooth motion. Chuck managed a grin; ever the showman. "Are you ready?" Bryce asked.

"Yes," Chuck said. "We're done here."

The door lock was still broken, and Chuck didn't bother putting on the loop of twine that they'd used to keep the door closed the night before. The door swung drunkenly on its one remaining hinge, yawning like the maw of some creature from the darkest hell. As they started their walk to the streetcar line, the sun just started to touch the rooftops of downtown Boston off to the west. Neither of them looked back, instead their eyes were fixed on their desitination. There was nothing left for them of 'Bartowski and Son.'

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: Big chapter coming up. Probably in a week's time. Chuck and Bryce vs. Roark and his goons, with super-science armageddon looming in the background! Yes! Will Sandra get Chuck's letter in time to save them? Or stop them? What is it she's supposed to be doing anyway? Who knows! Well, me obviously. But no spoilers.

Hopefully the explanation of the Tesseract Engine makes sense? If not, speak up! Reviews make this process a heck of a lot easier, just so I know people are picking up what I'm putting down.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Content advisory. Things get pretty violent this chapter and the next. No torture or anything, but forewarned is fore-armed, and gunfights are kind of a necessity in a story like this.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck, even in the 19th century.

Chapter 5:

'Sandra Bower' had spent most of the day doing paperwork. Even under an assumed name—well, another assumed name—the Secret Service was a government agency, and she had contact reports to fill out from yesterday. After action reports thanks to the shootout at 'Bartowski and Son,' and more contact reports because apparently, she couldn't keep her hands off Charles Bartowski, even when she knew there would be paperwork involved. She sat at her desk and checked her pen. How exactly to explain what had happened with Chuck? There wasn't a good, satisfactory way to do it, and she didn't want to falsify her reports, but it was seeming more and more likely to happen. She shook her head.

"Come on, Walker. You just met the bloody man," she fumed to herself. "Don't go getting all weak at the knees after _one day_! Have some self respect. His father just died..." But that didn't really help, it just gave him this vulnerable, sad expression and—

A knock came at the door. "Excuse me, Miss?" She recognized the voice, raised as it was to carry through the heavy oak door.

Sandra sighed and stuffed the paperwork into a drawer so her landlady couldn't see, before going across to the door. Unlocking and opening the door was a three-fold process. First, the double deadbolt had to be unlocked, then the top and bottom stops had to be pulled, lastly, she had to throw the bar she'd installed across the middle of the portal.

"Yes, Mrs. Norris?" she said, when she finally tugged the door open. The house was old even by Boston standards, and the sagging timbers made the door stick a little. The old woman was too cheap to hire someone to come in and shave the bottoms of the doors, and if Sandra just went out herself and got the carpentry tools from the shed, Mrs. Norris would have a heart attack at the impropriety. Literally.

"There's a letter here for you, from a young man I thinks?" The old crone said, her grin showing more goldwork than actual teeth. "About time, too. It's practically a scandal, a woman your age, and still out on her own like this."

Sandra rolled her eyes and made a grab for the letter. Mrs. Norris wouldn't let go, and for several seconds they struggled for it before Sandra's patience was at an end. She brought her free hand up and tapped the nerve cluster in the back of her landlady's elbow. The hand holding the letter flinched open and Mrs. Norris yelped in shock. "Thanks for your opinion. If only I'd asked for it," Sandra said, and slammed the door, before putting the deadbolts back on. Sandra glanced at the writing, at least the seal wasn't broken. She didn't think Mrs. Norris had the steady hands necessary to lift the seal with a hot knife, but still, she hoped whoever had written to her knew enough tradecraft to... Sandra blinked. She recognized that handwriting.

Her training had made those kinds of details something she looked for when she had the chance, and yesterday at the hospital, she'd gotten a glimpse of Chuck's signature. She grinned. He'd written her? Sandra bit her lip and snapped the seal with a flick of her wrists, opening the letter and reading.

Her eyes kept getting wider as she read. "Oh, Chuck. You wonderful idiot." She grabbed her gun belt and strapped it on, then flipped her long leather coat around her shoulders and ran for the door. Mrs. Norris said something about young ladies going out on their own at night and borrowing trouble, but Sandra just rolled her eyes and patted the reassuring weight of the Colt Single Action Army revolvers she wore on either hip. Yesterday with Chuck, she'd felt practically naked with just that pair of derringers. Sandra stopped in the doorway... Those two thoughts suddenly jammed themselves together in her head. They did _not _belong in the same sentence, and she blushed at the series of mental images they spurred. Naked Chuck. Naked with Chuck. The blush deepened. Not for the first time, she was supremely glad that Mrs. Norris could not read her mind. Sandra shook the _thoroughly _improper images out of her brains. Then she bulled through the door before her landlady could notice she was wearing boots and trousers and not 'a proper lady's dress.' Sandra had had quite enough of that codswallop from the woman over the few weeks she'd been in town doing research.

She set off down the street at a quick, but comfortable walking pace. The letter seemed to grow warmer in her inside pocket as she walked, and before she knew it, Sandra found herself jogging, then running, then in a flat out sprint. The Federal building was only a handful of blocks away, and with the sun clinging to the rooftops, the streets were less crowded than the could have been. She still had to dodge around slow moving pedestrians, and the occasional horse-and-four, but it was less of a chore than it could have been. At one point, she even grabbed on the back of a streetcar. The engineer shouted something at her, and Sandra flipped him an obscene hand gesture as she dropped back into the street. She heard gasps from offended hoity-toity ladies and rolled her eyes with a grin as she took the steps up to the door of the Federal building two at a time.

There was a pair of beefy-looking guards flanking the door, one of whom put up a hand to stop her. Sandra pivoted smoothly, grabbed his thumb and yanked it down and around. "I don't have time for you, ox-brains," she growled and produced her badge. "Now move aside." Their eyes widened at the sight of her credentials, and she could practically see their 'but she's a girl' reflexes about to kick in, so she shifted her weight to one side, twisted her wrist and pressed forward between them. The man whose thumb she'd wrenched staggered sideways into his partner and they tumbled in a tangle of limbs. "Work on your form boys! You'll never make rank like that," she said, waving mockingly over her shoulder.

"What the hell was that?" One of the guards muttered, nursing his sore thumb and wrist. "I barely saw her move."

"We're on the verge of a new century, Mustrum. You hear they may even let women _vote_?"

Sandra grumbled to herself. She hadn't been nearly rough enough on those two.

The Federal building was all marble and columns inside as well, as out, where it wasn't heavy white plaster. The interior lights were electric, thanks to the conversion that had come through a few years earlier, so at least she didn't have to waste time getting a lantern lit or the like. Sandra went straight to the switchboard and waved her badge around again so everyone could see. "I need the room," was all she said. At this time of day, most of the telephone operators had gone home, but the handful of women in the stuffy, harshly lit, windowless room looked at her as if she'd grown a second head, or a third arm. "I have a gun too," Sandra swept one side of her coat back over the butt of her Peacemaker. "If it makes any difference."

There was a general run for the door at that pronouncement, and Sandra grabbed one of the stools. She glared up at the patchwork of wires and machinery that was the guts of the Federal interstate telephone system and tried to remember off the top of her head what the protocol was for calling the head of the Secret Service on the telephone.

She couldn't afford to waste time, though, so Sandra pulled a tiny leather-bound book from her coat pocket and fiddled with the wires until she got the connection she wanted. She took up the earpiece and leaned forward.

"Hello? Washington, D.C. Treasury department."

"Roan Montgomery please."

"I'm sorry, I don't have anyone here by that name."

Sandra rolled her eyes. "Then tell the room... hang on, I've got the phrase of the day somewhere," she pressed the book open one handed. "Right, 'the elegant...' oh for the love of God. 'The elegant buttressing of Notre Dame is second only to a well-made corset.'"

"What?" The woman in D.C. said. "You want me to say that to everybody in the room?"

"Just do it, alright? It's important." Roan Montgomery was worse than twenty of the door guards, the way he carried on. Sandra took out her pocketwatch and glanced at it. She should have thought about it earlier; what if he wasn't in the office right then?

A few moments passed, while the other woman obviously covered the mouthpiece on her end. Eventually a new voice came on the line. "Sorry about that, we weren't expecting a report so soon. I'll patch you through to mister Montgomery right away."

Then the buzzing along the line while they waited for him to pick up.

The operator's voice came back. "Mr. Montgomery for you."

Sandra sighed as the voice came across hundreds of miles to her ear. "It's late, and there's a young lady waiting on me. This better be important, Agent Walker."

She rolled her eyes. The man was a lecherous fop, if that were possible, but he was her supervisor and she had to put up with his loathsome habits. At least after that first pass he'd made, she had made her position vis-a-vis dirty old men perfectly clear. He still walked with a limp sometimes when it got cold, but she was pretty sure it was just for show. And an excuse to carry a sword-cane. "Stephen Bartowski is dead. And I think his sons are going to try to kill Roark and destroy the machine," she said clearly and distinctly, to make sure it went through whatever it was that let Roan Montgomery hear her voice across the vast gulf of distance that separated them. Someone had explained how telephones worked to her once, but they hadn't really known what they were talking about. Chuck could probably do a better job, if—she cut off that line of thinking.

"So, tomorrow after Roark kills them, or they kill Roark. Round up the survivors and see what this machine of theirs really does, we'll go from there."

"What about Chuck?"

"Who? What about him?"

"Nothing. Never mind," Sandra said. She shouldn't have expected him to know or care about...

"Sarah. If you think this 'Chuck' is important, I trust your judgment. But I don't want a repeat of what happened in Bakersfield. If you rack up any more bodies I don't know—"

"Actually sir," she started.

"Hellfire, Walker!" Montgomery snapped. "What part of low-key investigation didn't you understand?"

"I have to go if I'm to have any chance of getting to Roark before Chuck and Larkin."

"Who the hell is Larkin?"

"I'll fill you in on all the details tomorrow," Sarah said, and put the handset back on the cradle. Damn it. Roark's house was all the way across town.

* * *

Chuck stepped down from the streetcar barely a block from the Roark Mansion. The sun was just slipping down under the horizon, and in the dim afterglow of the day, the house took on a sinister appearance. Maybe it was his imagination. But the structure seemed to hum with power, and Chuck felt a spike of fear running through his veins. What if they were too late? What if Roark had the Tesseract Engine up and running, had seen... he didn't know what. A man with the future open to him like a book, if the thing worked, how could he be fought? Wouldn't he already know they were coming. He shivered, and Bryce clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Relax, Chuck," Bryce said as they walked past the wrought iron front gate. "Worst that happens is they kill us, right?"

"Oh, I'm ever so reassured now," Chuck shot back. "Thanks for that."

Bryce managed a laugh, and Chuck rolled his eyes. The mansion was three stories, and crouched in the dim twilight like a toad on a log. Gaslamps flickered in the breeze on the long walk up the path to the door. Chuck was a little surprised the man hadn't made the switch to electric, but the glow from the house itself was such that he suspected the change was underway, just not complete yet. Or maybe he simply had enough servants that paying a man to light the lamps and put them out every day was trivial. The thought somehow made his hatred of the man swell until it nearly choked him. Chuck shook his head at the ridiculousness of it all.

The lamplighter was still at work, and they passed him halfway up the path on his little folding stepladder. From there on, they walked in darkness. Finally they made their way up the front steps. The walls shone in the twilight, fresh whitewash causing the monstrously large house to glow. Bryce leaned forward and yanked the bell-pull twice.

"The waiting is the worst of it," he muttered. Chuck glanced at him. Bryce was right, Chuck considered; the entire property was designed to put visitors in awe of the wealth and power of the Roark name. All it really did was make Chuck's hackles rise. He felt for his pistol absently, and suddenly it all seemed surreal, reckless beyond all recovery. Chuck couldn't kill anyone! It was absurd, they should just go back and—

The door opened, and an elderly man with slate gray hair in a fancy coat and tie stood in the doorway. "How may I help you, gentlemen?" There was just a hint of something in the way he said, 'gentlemen,' as if he hardly meant it, or meant it facetiously.

Bryce ignored the veiled rudeness. "Mister Roark will be wanting to see us," he said, voice calm in a way Chuck was envious of.

The butler arched an eyebrow. "He asked not to be disturbed. His experiments are at a delicate stage, and—"

Chuck cut him off. "Tell your boss that Chuck bartowski is here. He'll want to see us."

The butler frowned, and waved them into the entryway. The high vaulted ceiling extended up to the second floor, and a chandelier hung in the open space. Chuck found himself inspecting it, to see if it had been converted to electric, or if Roark made someone get up on a stepladder to light the thing every night. He did. Chuck could just make out the shiny wax of the candles under the wavering flames. That and the glass pan underneath to catch the wax had a cloudy look to it, from drippings. Chuck shook his head again at every new piece of the puzzle of Ted Roark that he found. He doubted, even if the man _hadn't_ killed Chuck's father, if he could have found any redeeming qualities in Roark. Chuck wondered how his father had ever put up with the man.

"Any ideas?" Bryce said out the side of his mouth, once the butler had shuffled off. "Where's the machine? You think it's here or not?"

Chuck came out of his musings. "I think so. Didn't you feel that as we came in? The whole place is practically humming with electricity."

"That could just be the lights?"

Chuck shook his head. "No. Its a high voltage transformer, I can almost feel my fillings rattling from the magnets. Its here."

Bryce nodded. "But where, that's the question."

"You think he's not going to take us right to it?" Chuck asked.

"I think he's going to send hired guns back to collect us. We should move before he gets the chance."

"That's not very civilized."

"Who says we have to play this by the rules, Chuck?" Bryce said. "Thoughts?"

Chuck tapped his fingers on his chin. "Yes. It can't be anywhere above the first floor, or the aerials and the lightning rod would have stuck up out of the roof. He probably had to cut out the roof of the second floor as well as the third to build the chamber."

"Somebody's coming back," Bryce said. "Let's go. Upstairs."

"What? But I just said..."

"They cut the floor out, you said," Bryce nudged him toward the stairs. "We'll have the high ground, come on move."

Chuck let Bryce push him toward the stairs. After a moment, his feet started moving and Chuck was halfway up the exposed staircase to the second floor when two gunmen burst in. Bryce grabbed Chuck's ankle, pulling him flat onto the stairs. Gunfire erupted below them and the fancy carved banister exploded in wood chips above him, showering Chuck with splinters.

Bryce had his sawed off out in the blink of an eye. He emptied both barrels down into the foyer. A man screamed in pain and Chuck saw one of the gunmen pinwheel to the ground with a bloom of red along his right side. Bryce's bowler hat flew off his head from a bullet impact. He hunched his shoulders and ducked. "Go!" Bryce bellowed as he broke the action on his shotgun and yanked the spent shells out of the breech. Chuck scrambled up the stairs, using his hands to steady himself as he stayed low. Bryce laid out on the steps, reloading while bullets whined into the walls around him. From his higher vantage, Chuck could see one of the gunmen sliding out to flank. His hands seemed to work on their own, and Chuck felt the foreign weight of his father's revolver in his fist.

He thumbed the hammer back and his hand only shook a little as he took aim. The big Remington jumped in his hands, the recoil shocked him, and his round went wide. "Bryce, come on!" Chuck shouted, and squeezed off two more rounds. Bryce sent another shotgun blast down into the Foyer while the gunmen ducked for cover from Chuck's bullets.

Larkin made it to the landing and ran crouched over to the nearest door. The gunmen used the opportunity to focus their fire on Chuck once more, who went prone and stuck his pistol out blindly and shot the cylinder dry just to keep their heads down.

"Door's locked!" Bryce shouted over the gunfire.

Chuck snorted and rolled onto his back, as he worked to reload his revolver. "You have a damn shotgun, remember?"

Bryce's eyebrows shot up, and her rolled his eyes. "Idiot," he said, self deprecatingly. Then he blew the lock out with a blast of lead buckshot.

Chuck dug in his pocket for the spare, pre-loaded cylinder, but a new voice echoed through the chamber. "I'd stop that if I were you, mister Bartowski." Chuck glanced back at Bryce, and he slumped in defeat. Two more men were standing with guns pointed at Bryce's head. A third had taken his shotgun.

He held out the charged cylinder in one hand, sat up and set his father's pistol down to one side. They had failed.

* * *

The two guards at the front door of the Federal building were still nursing their humiliating defeat at her hands when Sarah barreled out and down the stairs. She ran diagonally down the stairs and vaulted the railing into the street without a backward glance.

"Huh," one of them remarked. "She never does anything halfway, do she?"

Sarah was halfway down the block when she spotted a streetcar coming the opposite direction. She jumped on the front, clutching the rail and swinging in next to the driver. "This thing get down to Pluteville?"

The driver stared at her in consternation without answering. She rolled her eyes and flashed her badge again. "Yes or no will do."

"Aye, it does," the man finally said.

Sarah put her badge away and waved airily. "Then don't stop for nothing. I'll let you know where you can drop me."

"I can't do—"

The maw of her .44-40 in his face put an end to that. "I can figure out how to work this thing myself if I have to," she remarked as if the two weren't related in the slightest. The driver paled visibly and pushed the throttle lever forward as far as he could risk and still be safe.

* * *

"Well," the slightly chubby, graying man with Bryce's shotgun said. "I truly wasn't expecting such a commotion. Were you two raised in a barn? I would have hoped we could be civilized about all this business."

"You killed my father," Chuck growled. Roark waved absently.

"Actually..." he paused. "I think you'll find, Mr. Larkin here winged the trigger-man with some buckshot."

"More than winged him, Mr. Roark. Billy's bleeding something awful," one of the gunmen said from the stairs. "I don't know if he's going to make it."

"Then shoot him in the head," Roark said calmly. "We can't afford him turning up in a hospital, not now that we have what we need." He turned to Chuck with a grin that sent Chuck into a shudder. "Now, mister Bartowski..." the gunshot from downstairs startled him somewhat. They'd killed one of their own. A man was dead, but all Chuck could think was, now it was four on two. "Where's my journal?"

Chuck smiled darkly. "I burned it about an hour ago."

"You _what!_" Roark shouted in Chuck's face.

"I've heard one of the first signs of hearing loss is a faint buzzing sound, so I'd suggest you look out for that Mr—"

Chuck lurched backward, pain flashing through him. He shook his head; what the hell was that? He wiped blood from his nose and his mouth, and barely managed to stay on his feet. His eyes focused after a moment, and he remembered Roark was holding Bryce's sawed-off. So that's what a shotgun stock to the face felt like. It wasn't something he'd like to repeat. Chuck shook his head, careless of the blood he was getting all over. He needed to clear his thoughts.

Roark was panting, trying to get his anger under control. Chuck could see the wheels turning behind the man's eyes. "You burned it... which means. You came here to stop me? But its not finished, why would... Stephen you clever bastard. It _is _finished isn't it. All that talk, those pages he burned in front of me! Just stuff and nonsense, I should have expected. Bring them," he said. "I want them to see their father's dream made reality before we kill them."

"No, don't!" Chuck said. "You can't start the machine. It isn't finished! You could—whoof!" And that was what getting a shotgun stock to the stomach felt like. Chuck fell to his knees and gasped for breath.

Roark snorted. "You'll not stop me, now I know the machine is ready."

One of the gunmen grabbed Chuck's arm and led him after Roark into the huge chamber holding the Tesseract Engine. As he passed Bryce, his adopted brother winked, and glanced pointedly down and to his left. What? Chuck's eyes widened. They hadn't searched him. Bryce still had Sandra's Derringer in his coat pocket.

They came into the chamber and Chuck's mouth dropped open. There was a nearly palpable air of menace in the room. The tip of the aerials came up nearly to Chuck's eyeline. They were standing on a railed balcony, hastily built around the edges of the room from scrap iron. It rattled under foot, and wobbled slightly. Laid out below them was a nearly finished version of the last drawing Chuck remembered from the journal. A ten-foot cube, the frame made from hardened steel and the faces of the cube some kind of smoked glass sat, balanced on one corner in the center of the room. A semi-circular support arm stretched around and up to hold the cube in place. It looked a little like the globes Chuck had studied in geography at Harvard, a waste of a Quarter if he'd ever heard of one, but the similarity stopped there. Goldwork lines covered every face of the cube, in odd patterns. Chuck couldn't fathom what they were for, despite what he remembered from his father's journal. Gold was an excellent conductor, and mostly non-reactive. Copper was more commonly used for electrical wiring, but gold was more efficient. Roark had spared no expense. Ten foot Tesla coils stood to either side of the machine, silent for now, but foreboding in a way Chuck was ill-prepared for.

Below the cube, Chuck recognized the bulk of a drawing from the patent documents from yesterday. They'd already built the calculating machine as well. Whatever was in those last, lost few pages of the journal, Chuck suddenly knew, the machine would function without them. Whether it would strike them all mad, or kill them, or fail catastrophically, and blast all of Boston to cinders, he couldn't know. But it seemed more and more likely, Roark would get his look into the future this night. He led the way over to a counter, built into the wall, covered with levers and toggle switches. Obviously the control panel for the machine. Chuck's eyes locked onto it, trying to figure out how to disable the machine with it, or do some damage to stop Roark from— a pistol shoved into his ribs cut off his planning.

"Don't get any ideas," his captor growled roughly in his ear.

Roark passed out heavy tinted goggles to his men. "These should polarize the light, keep you from being overwhelmed by the flood of images. Let me just get the camera set up.

Chuck pulled his eyes away from the spectacle of the machine and saw what Roark was talking about. Mounted on the wall behind them was some kind of strange rig. He recognized more than a dozen boxy portable cameras, mounted on a circular gantry like... He blinked. It was a like a Gatling gun, but with cameras instead of gun-barrels. The mechanism would shuffle out new photographic plates, and... Chuck frowned, and studied it more intently.

"Ah, you like, Bartowski? An invention of my own! Your father wasn't the only one who could think ahead of his time*, it will record the future at a blistering seventeen frames per second!" Roark grinned under his goggles. "Of course, we'll have to see how much you two can remember, before we get rid of you."

The gunmen let their grips on Chuck and Bryce falter as they worked to get their goggles on. Roark didn't wait to make sure they were ready, but went across to the control panel and seized a huge switch. He yanked it down and sparks flew up briefly. There was an audible clunking sound, then the constant clicking of a ratchet, whirring from the computational engine below them.

The tesla coils sparked and a lash of blue sparks played across the cube as fifty thousand volts arced through the resistance of the air and onto the points of the cube. Ever so slowly, it began to rotate, with a grinding noise at first. "Bryce! Now!"

The derringer came out into his hand, and Bryce spun. He put the barrel right up to the back of the first goon's head. A gout of blood splattered the wall. Almost in the same heartbeat, Bryce turned and extended the gun a second time, serving the second gunman the same.

Chuck made a grab for the man guarding him, and managed to knock the pistol out of his opponent's hand. It clattered off the railing and fell into the arcing electricity off the tesla coil below. The magnetic field flicked it out of line with the rotating cube, sent it rocketing back up end over end to glance off the metal flashing over Roark's head and ricochet off to smash through one of the windows, barely missing Chuck's head as it went. Everyone froze for a moment, stunned by this development. Chuck had a momentary advantage, but his head was still a little fuzzy from the blow he'd sustained, and his reaction time was slower than it should have been. The remaining gunman, a heavyset balding man with beady eyes and smelling of old beer grabbed Chuck by the throat. Chuck threw a punch that Roark's henchman batted away easily. The two men struggled, but the narrow catwalk wasn't a great place to be having a fistfight. He felt the railing in the small of his back, and his opponent had the advantage in weight, training and position. Chuck's panic reaction as he started tipping over the railing was to grab onto anything he could.

He hauled back on the gunman as he fell, tugging him over the railing after him. Chuck and his bad guy hung unsupported for a moment in the air over crackling electric death, and he screamed like a girl, before gravity took over.

TO BE CONTINUED...

A/N: Cliffhanger! This chapter got away from me, lengthwise, and I didn't want to drop a 8-9k word chapter on you, my loyal readers. If you think about it, I'm really doing you a favor. More sci-fi craziness next chapter.

*Roark's camera invention is actually stolen from another scientist, and well behind the times, in addition to being completely inefficient compared to other comparable designs of the period. The first practical motion picture camera, the Kinetograph, co-invented by Edison, both much smaller and less ridiculous, was already in use at Edison Labs in the prototype stage, and a new model was due to be released for commercial production in just a few years. Motion picture viewers called Kinetoscopes would first turn up in 1894. By the turn of the century viewers would be available for use in most towns across the country, with movie theaters less than a decade behind. The only advantage of Roark's camera is its use of larger apertures and lensing, for higher resolution.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Here's the resolution to that unintentional cliffhanger from the last update. Really just one big action sequence, spillover from last chapter. Hot off the word processor, so any mistakes are due to me rushing to get this out there.

Chapter 6: Breakdown

The sound of the first gunshot startled Roark, still with his hand on the regulator lever that controlled the speed of the lens apparatus' oscillation. He flinched forward, and the lever hit the stop and broke off in his hand. Roark stared in shock at the flimsy, bent piece of brasswork tubing clutched in his fist. "Oh, my good lord," he breathed, and whirled just in time to see the second gunshot make a fine pink mist out of his second guard's head. Pandemonium was breaking out, the machine was going out of control, and now Stephen Bartowski's sons were going to try to kill him again. Roark grabbed the shotgun the shorter one had been using and turned.

That second gunshot was still ringing in his ears when Bryce spotted Chuck's trouble. He threw the spent derringer at Roark's head, making the man duck, and sprang into action. He tried to close the distance and grab the two men before they could flip over the railing, but he was a split-second too late. Chuck was already going over before Bryce was close enough.

Bryce lunged and managed to grab onto Chuck's pantleg, and the momentum of Chuck's fall slammed Bryce hard into the guardrail. He grit his teeth and hung on for all he was worth. The falling gunman had no time to react, lost his grip on Chuck's lapel and tumbled right into the blue crackle of electricity arcing between the massive electrical coils. Bryce was never much for science even at the best of times, but the tiny part of his brain that could still think about those kinds of things was shocked when the man passed harmlessly through the visibly coruscating sparks.

The gunman had just time enough to start a high pitched scream, echoing through the chamber along with Chuck's before the accelerating spin of the cube intercepted his fall, cracking his head and giving his fall a brief sideways tumble. The gunman hit the ground with an audible thump, and the blue arc of electricity slammed down into him, now that he was the closest path to ground. His clothes burst into flame and the horrid stench of burning flesh began to fill the chamber.

Hanging upside down, Chuck's scream cut off; he realized he wasn't falling, but now he knew what waited for him if he did fall. His eyes darted up, and he could see the strain in Bryce's face from holding up Chuck's heavier frame. "Got any big ideas, brother?" Bryce gritted.

Chuck started to shrug, but he realized that it wouldn't come off upside down. His coat was hanging down over his arms, and he felt the weight of his revolver's spare cylinder in his coat pocket. He blinked in thought. When had he put that back? The thought was extraneous, unimportant, and he walled that line of thought off and let his eyes fall back to the crackling blue death below him. Pieces clicked together, plan coming together suddenly.

"Yes," he said. "But this is going to be tricky."

* * *

Sarah put her hand on the driver's shoulder. "Slow down," she said, and waved the pistol in her left hand vaguely. It wasn't really a threatening move, but the man was sufficiently cowed to take it that way. She didn't even wait for the streetcar to come to a complete halt. The streetcar line didn't come right by the Roark mansion, as she had hoped, but one street over was close enough.

Her leap down to the cobblestones was reckless, and she had to tuck and roll to control the impact. Sarah came out of the roll in stride, stuffed her pistol back in its holster without so much as looking down, and was running again. There was no way she was going to waste any time going down to the end of the block and around. Instead, Sarah ran right up to the wrought iron fence around some rich old man's stately home. Still without missing a step, she grabbed hold of the crossbar just above her head at six feet, put a boot to one of the bars and pulled herself up. She threw her legs up and vaulted over the fence in one smooth motion, just missing the spikes that surmounted each of the upright bars.

The grounds were dark and vague shadowy outlines of shrubs tortured into animal shapes abounded. Sarah didn't have time to waste wondering at the excesses of the rich. She ran down a gravel path through the garden of topiary bushes, when shouts broke out. A man with a lantern appeared out of the shadows, half blinding her. Sarah dove over the back of a bush in the shape of some strange straight-horned deer she'd never heard of, rolled and came up into a roundhouse kick. Her boot slapped the lantern out of the man's grip and it went sailing to smash into a bloom of flame all along the front of a bush in the shape of a rearing horse. The burning oil took flame with an audible sound.

Whoever he was, Sarah felt no compunction about laying him out with a quick combination. She gave him a quick jab to the solar plexus, ducked a clumsy swing as the wind went out of him and slapped a sleeper hold on him just to be safe. She only held the pressure for a few seconds, much more than that, and he might never wake up. He was heavier than she thought, and laying him down gently took it's toll. She nearly wrenched her shoulder.

It took a substantial effort of will not to boot him in the ribs for the time she'd had to waste subduing him. Now shouts in the distance, reacting to the fire. Sarah rolled her eyes and sighed and ran on. If that jerk had held her up, and Chuck died because of it... she stomped on that thought. He'd be fine. He had to be, because she... Her stride faltered. _What the hell was that?_ Sarah punched the side of her head. _You've known him a day, Walker! Get a hold of yourself._ But her heart was pounding in worry more than in exertion, everything her sensei had taught her about centering herself wasn't doing a damn thing with the prospect of her Chuck in danger. _Her _Chuck? Sarah winced, but kept running around the side of the big mansion, vaulted another fence and out into the street. She had it bad.

* * *

Roark took aim with his commandeered shotgun, lining up the sights with Larkin's back and squeezing the double set trigger to fire both barrels. There was a metallic snap as the hammers flicked forward, but nothing more. He frowned in shock for a moment, then worked the action, exposing the backs of the pair of spent rounds still in the Breech. He blinked behind his polarized goggles. Of course. A trifle foolish of him. Roark shifted his grip and raised the gun over his head, threw it end over end at the idiots who thought they could stop him. He missed, badly, and the gun clipped the railing six feet from where Larkin was hunched over the railing, clanged against the steel and fell over the edge. "Shite!" Roark cursed aloud, and snatched his cane from where he'd set it next to the control console earlier. A quick twist had the blade free, and he charged.

Bryce flinched at the sound of the gun hitting the railing, but kept his grip on Chuck's ankle. "Look out!" he said, when he spotted the tumbling weapon. Chuck had already seen it. Plans are all well and good, but sometimes you need to improvise. He swayed forward and snatched the gun out of the air one handed by the barrel. With a flick of his wrist, Chuck snapped the action closed again, and kept moving forward. He turned as much of his momentum as he could into an inverted sit-up. His abdomen yelled at him for it, but he managed to swing his arms up high enough. Bryce reacted well, lashing out with his free hand to grab the stock. After a moment he let go of Chuck's ankle, and yanked up with both arms. He grabbed Chuck's wrist with the newly freed hand and Chuck flipped upright and seized the bars of the railing. His legs were still too low, and they flailed helplessly, but he wasn't falling, or suspended by a tenuous grip over electric death, which gave him the opportunity to glance around in a panic again.

"Behind you!" Chuck shouted, and Bryce spun, shotgun coming across. He beat Roark's sword-thrust aside and popped him in the face with the barrel of the shotgun. There was a dull chime of metal on bone and Roark staggered back a step with blood trailing from his nose.

Below them, the cube spun, still accelerating with every revolution. The machine gave off a sound like a monstrous broom sweeping across gravel, rhythmically, picking up speed as the huge machine built up momentum. Arcs of blue electricity began to play across the surface of the cube, channeling along the goldwork lines, and sometimes arcing out randomly across the length of the chamber, up nearly to the ceiling, or to the metal flashing along the walls. Tiny things, beside the huge bands of electric death flickering between the Tesla coils, but still ominous. One flickered across the railing inches from Chuck's hand and he felt a tingle, his hair standing on end, but little more.

Bryce plowed forward, spinning the shotgun stock into Roark's stomach. The man staggered back and fell with a clatter to the metal grating of the catwalk. The impact shook the whole structure. The railing shuddered and Chuck's eyes widened, as it bent downward from his weight with a scream of protesting metal.

The quality of light in the chamber shifted, and by reflex he glanced over his shoulder at the machine. An image flickered to life, projected through the cube, onto the walls, only for a second, of a strange craft, with stubby protrusions to either side like a bird's wings. Two-toned white and black, huge in scope, with giant curved doors on the back and a white metal gantry extended from the open chamber. A man-shaped, white figure with a bulbous head, like a man in a diving suit, floated next to the crane, tiny in scope compared to the craft, set off against a background of stars. And further, off in the distance, the massive curve of a blue and white orb in the black void. He knew with a sudden shudder of wonder: it was the Earth. The image flickered and died, it had only known life for a second, but Chuck shivered. Every detail was seared into his memory. A great ominous hum filled the chamber, and Chuck tore his eyes away from the spectacle.

Bryce was working to reload his shotgun, fingers fumbling fresh shells into place, when he heard Chuck shouting. "Bryce! Goggles! Now!" He nodded and leapt over Roark, still flat on his back. Bryce rolled, but the impact still shook the catwalk, and the railing bent under Chuck's weight another inch. Bryce fumbled in the mess his .45 caliber derringer bullet had made of one gunman's head. Heedless of the blood, he snatched the goggles free and yanked them over his eyes. Getting the second pair off was harder, the strap caught on something Bryce would just as soon not look at.

The cube spun faster, the great rythmic thrumming speeding up, like a ticking clock, or a metronome, faster, faster still, until it shook the whole chamber. The smaller arcs of electricity flashed with every revolution, etching lines of soot into metal where they struck. Above them, Roark's camera mechanism spun, shuffling plates into exposure chambers until a larger arc of electricity struck it, exploding with force. A great chunk of the recording equipment fell onto the catwalk and it rang like a gong, twisting and bending. The bolts holding the catwalk to the wall shuddered and several snapped. The whole structure lurched downward several inches.

Bryce finally had the second pair of goggles free, and he threw them toward his friend. Chuck lunged for them, but the strap snagged on his finger and they tumbled off into the chamber. "No!" Chuck shouted in anger, and he glanced around desperately, searching for anything that he could do. He was certain now, after seeing one glimpse into the future, that his mind wasn't strong enough to contain the vast multitude of images that would soon come crashing through him. He needed those goggles.

Chuck felt the weight of the loaded cylinder in his pocket again and he sighed. "Bloody hell with it!" His hand went into his pocket and Chuck flung the cylinder dead on at one of the Tesla coils. He swung his legs back and then forward, trying to drive his momentum away from the machine, as he let go of the railing. The cylinder spun in midair and the blue line of electricity caught it. Yellow and white sparks flew, and there was a crack as the primer ignited, a boom and then a ripple of concussions as the other five rounds went off at once. The bullets whizzed through the chamber, one blasting its way through Bryce's forearm, another smashing into the control panel and sending up a shower of sparks. The others went God knows where.

Chuck let out a great wordless shout as he fell, but the cylinder did it's job, bending the electricity away from him momentarily. He hit and rolled, the air flew from his lungs and he landed in a jumble of limbs. The electric arc resumed its earlier path, but Chuck's roll had sent him far enough away. The resistance of the air was too great to call the surging eletricity to him, when it had the two great conductive globes at the top of the Tesla coils to flow through. The cube spun ever faster, and images began appearing. Chuck realized at the last moment, and tried to shut his eyes, turn his face from the onslaught, but it was too late. His pupils dilated and he couldn't turn away. The images came ever faster, strobing across the room, flickering faster than he could count. Chuck shuddered and was still, eyes wide, as the future was laid bare to him.

The electric light bulbs in the chandelier hanging from the ceiling above them popped and shattered, a shower of glass fell and was swept across the chamber by the wind of the cube's passage. Tiny slashes painted Bryce's cheek and the hand he threw up to shield his eyes.

Roark shook his head and hauled himself to his feet, staggered and fetched up against the already bent railing. The catwalk was shivering in time to the revolution of the cube now, and the last supports snapped. Metal squealed as the guard rail bent further still, and the walkway fell with a crash. One end of the broken balcony hit the ground and the fall stopped, with the walkway at a jarring angle. Bryce lurched and tried to keep his balance, but the angle was too steep. He tumbled backwards down the inclined section of walkway and managed to snag the railing with one hand. Bryce's shotgun flew from his hand and he grit his teeth, regained his balance and vaulted the rail after it. Roark staggered down the incline, nearly fell, and slid the last few feet on his behind. He somehow kept his grip on his sword-cane the entire time, and turned to rush at Bryce again.

Larkin snatched his shotgun back up, snapped the action closed on the fresh rounds and turned, putting the stock up to his shoulder and leveling the weapon at Roark. The older man skidded to a halt, shrugged and dropped his sword, putting his hands up in surrender. Bryce grinned, turned and fired both barrels at the junction where the cube support connected to the mechanical calculator Chuck had described. The pellets flickered blue with electricity, but they were lead, and moving too fast for the magnetic field to stop. Sparks flew from the mechanical calculator, and smoke billowed up, but the cube still spun, flinging off deadly images. A haze of steam and smoke began to fill the room, lit by the flickering electric light of the machine.

"No!" Roark bellowed and charged, empty handed, at Bryce. He had the shotgun's breech open when Roark smashed into him, and blood was throbbing from the wound in his forearm. Roark dug his thumb into the wound and Bryce screamed. He punched Roark in the ribs twice with his good arm, but the awkward angle stole power from the blows. The shotgun was wedged useless between them, and out of frustration, Bryce rammed his head forward into Roark's. The older man staggered back, somehow ending up with the spent shotgun. He swung it like a club. Bryce ducked and the momentum of the swing took the gun too close to the machine. Unseen force tore the gun from his hands and launched it up out of sight. The sound of breaking glass came a moment later.

Bryce threw a left cross with his wounded arm and shouted in pain. Roark staggered back a handful of steps but managed to stay in the safe zone. Bryce noticed absently that there was in fact a yellow line painted on the stone floor, with the words: Safe Zone stenciled next to it. Handy to know. His eyes darted everywhere, for a weapon, for something. Chuck sat, staring up at the images flickering by, without the protective goggles, they were impossible to block out, impossible to ignore.

His scan finally found something, steam pipes set into the wall of the chamber. Bryce darted the handful of steps it took to close the distance and seized one. He roared in pain as the pipe seared the flesh of his hands, but growled it away and pulled with all his might. The pipe fittings snapped and a three foot length of pipe started coming loose. Behind him, Roark pulled a folding knife from his pocket and stalked forward. Bryce heaved again and the pipe came loose entirely, a blast of steam following, searing his chest and cloaking his movements. He cursed in frustration. Chuck would have thought that one through better, Bryce knew, but there was no time for self-deprecation.

Larkin ran out of the cloud of steam, pipe swinging. The jagged end caught Roark in the shoulder and he staggered forward. Bryce pulled his weapon back and screamed as the knife went into his side. He cursed and jammed his knee into Roark's groin. The old man gasped and started to slump. Bryce smashed the man in the face with his fist and felt his knuckle crack against the hard arch of Roark's cranium. Roark staggered back several steps, his heels brushing the yellow line that marked the boundary between safety and electric death. Bryce's vision blurred and he screamed in rage, putting everything he had into one last try, one last rush. Bryce put his shoulder into the heavier man's gut and heaved upward, threw him bodily at the machine.

Roark's scream cut off as the leading edge of the cube, now spinning faster than the eye could follow, smashed into him and tossed him aside like so much garbage. His corpse hit one of the Tesla coils and bent it out of alignment with a groan of protesting metal. The cube shuddered and arcs of electricity filled the chamber, as wide as a man's hand and blisteringly bright. It was off center now in its support, and though images still flickered about the chamber, the rhythmic thrum took on a syncopation, like a boy skipping or a horse at the gallop. One of the faces of the cube cracked and the image splintered into a thousand sub-images. Chuck screamed. The cube still spun, but now thousands of images every flicker painted the walls.

"Chuck!" Bryce shouted as he limped over. He coughed blood and looked down to see the handle of Roark's pocketknife jutting from his ribs. Bryce grit his teeth and wrenched the knife out. His knees wobbled and he nearly fell, stiffening his legs at the last moment. He felt blood running down his side. Chuck's scream went on and on.

Growling, Bryce jammed his eyes closed, shoved the goggles over Chuck's head and heaved his friend up. The scream finally cut off when the shielding goggles covered Chuck's eyes. Bryce felt a tearing in his shoulder but heaved again, and managed to get the larger man over his shoulder. Staggering under the weight, Bryce took first one step away from the sound, where he knew the machine was failing, then another. He knew where the door was, and he risked squinting through his eyelids. The door came loose at the kick that nearly unbalanced him. Then somehow, miraculously, he was running.

* * *

Sarah skidded to a halt at the front gate of the Roark compound. Two men stood in her way, and she was out of breath from her sprint. "Mr. Roark ain't takin' visitors," one of the guards said.

Sarah pulled her badge out of her coat pocket and flashed it at them. "Secret Service. Make way, or I'll make my own."

The second went for his gun, but Sarah already had hers out of the holster, and held behind her back. Her Single Action Army came up and she sighted in. Sarah's pistol barked once, tearing a gaping wound in the man's gun arm just above the elbow. The first man was a split-second behind on the draw, and Sarah's second revolver spun into her hand. She fired from the hip a blink of an eye after the first shot. It wasn't a very good shot—quick-draw invariably meant wild shot—but the round took the first man in the foot. She'd been trying for the center of his chest, but there was no way she'd ever admit it. Sarah turned both guns on the man who'd spoken, cocking back the hammers in unison. "Drop it, or I turn your brains to mash."

The man's six-shooter fell from limp fingers. "We're just following orders," he said.

"That's not a defense for treason," she growled. Which was pure nonsense, even if these two didn't know it. If Roark was mixed up with the Fulcrum Gang, or the Ring, sure, he was looking at a gallows, but his hired help would probably get off with a few years behind bars. Still, she couldn't risk them coming after her. Sarah shifted aim and put a bullet from one revolver into the thigh meat of each man, holstered her guns and scooped up theirs. She gave each pistol a full armed throw off into the darkness of the garden, and resumed her run.

The gaslamps along the path gave her enough light that she was sure of her footing, but as she closed in on her goal, her eyes widened in shock. An explosion rocked the mansion, yellow and orange flames erupting from the second and third story windows. Actinic blue lights flickered out of the first floor windows and the windows shattered, casements splintered and blew out. The front door flew off its hinges and the walls bowed out as flames seemed to burst from every possible opening. She froze in horror and the shockwave took her from her feet, even though she was still fifty yards from the house.

Sarah sat up and a shard of smoked glass as long as her arm, spun end over end straight at her. She rolled and felt a tug on her sleeve, then a flash of pain. When she found the shard again, it was stuck into the ground halfway up its length and still vibrating with the force of the explosion. There were strange, geometric designs all over the shard, in what looked to be gold. Sarah clutched the slice in her coat, and her arm, blood oozing over her fingers.

She stared in horror as the Roark mansion collapsed in on itself, a groan of timbers accompanying the implosion. "Oh God... Chuck..." Sarah breathed, and lurched to her feet. The flames had mostly died out as she staggered forward into the wreckage. "Chuck! Chuck, can you hear me!" She shouted. The only answer was the buzzing in her ears from the sound of the explosion.

TO BE CONTINUED...

A/N: So... yeah. Cliffhanger again. Sorry. That got pretty crazy, didn't it? Imagine if I hadn't split this and the last update into two chapters... Tune in next week for another chapter, though I'm pretty sure it won't be this action packed. But, then again, you never know...

Please keep the reviews coming... I can only improve my writing with feedback, and considering my career choice, every little bit helps.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Change of pace, this chapter, as Chuck and Sarah need to discuss some things.

* * *

Chapter 7: After-effects

* * *

Chuck's mind was awash in images he could hardly comprehend. Then reality splintered, the rush of images became a torrent, overwhelming, without end, too much. Too much, everything that was Chuck was pushed aside, pushed down, and all that remained, for an unknowable length of time were the images. Blueprints, technical diagrams, moving pictures of potential futures.

In the blink of an eye, Chuck saw his life, beginning to end, dying old and alone in a Boston Sanitarium. Dead by gunshot, stabbing, disease, drowning, burned in a fire, old in bed surrounded by grand-children and even great-grand-children. He saw his life a thousand times, a thousand different ways. He married Sandra and had a passel of children, and didn't much care when he died because he'd had all a man could want. He married Jill, to general unhappiness on both their parts, he married Sandra again, but this time she shot him through the heart with tears in her eyes before their vows were finished. He married other women, lived other lives, happy, miserable, one after another, or maybe all at once. There was no discernible pattern. The details were lost in the rush. No mind could contain such multitudes.

And alongside these lives, he could see further yet into the mist of probabilities, of possible futures. More moving pictures, giant shapes like fireworks sending men to the stars. Iron shelled behemoths doing battle in far off deserts, boxy weapons roaring flames. Light like the heart of the sun devouring cities. In an operating theater, a doctor removed the heart from a dead man's chest and put it in another's, the second man lived again. The doctor pulled her mask down, and it was Ellie. No; a daughter, perhaps a granddaughter. A giant fish, a porpoise, squealing into a speaker, and English words coming out the other side. A man standing on the back of an Orca, a known mankiller, and feeding it as if it were a family pet. A hundred wonders, a hundred times a hundred. More. Always more.

Other things, other notions, the secrets of the universe. Physics equations strikingly similar to the ones his father had laid out, only the symbols for variables different. Men and women standing under strange skies, other suns. Worlds with three moons visible, or four. With two suns in the sky even. Giant domes of what looked to be simple glass in a dark void he couldn't fathom. He tried to grab onto the specifics, to hold an image, anything. But it was all happening at once, his life in ever expanding myriad ways, and the world, interconnected with each of those lives in ways he couldn't know, images rippling into one another. Driving him mad. Thousands of images, thousands of puzzles each flashing instant, hundreds of flickering sheets of incandescent memory passing through and into him, and he realized he was screaming. Time lost all meaning. It could have been years, or seconds. Then everything went black. Blessedly dark.

After an interminable silence, he heard a voice faintly in the dark. He couldn't make out the words, or at least he couldn't make sense of them. There was a name that went with that voice, flickering beyond reach of his faculties. It faded into the void and all was still. He tried to find the edges of the darkness, thinking he should be able to move, to swim through the inky black night as through water. Shouldn't he have a body? He couldn't feel one. He didn't know how long he waited in the darkness, before the voice returned. _Chuck, please wake up. Don't... I need you to wake up._ _Please come back to me... _Who was Chuck?

Yes, that's right, _he _was Chuck. But there was more to it, Bar-something. Memory came back, gushing into his mind like well-water from a pump, cool and fresh, and vital. _Please be alright. _The voice pleaded, such sorrow as he'd never known in it. And the name that went with the voice bobbed up in his consciousness like an apple on the surface of the water. "Sandra?" His voice croaked in his ears. He blinked his eyes open and the light, too sudden, stung like fire. He winced and cringed away from the light. His eyes felt crusty and his throat was raw and his ribs ached. Every part of him ached. There was a dull throb behind his eyes.

"I'm here," the voice said again, and he felt the cool pressure of her fingers laced through his own, squeezing reassurance. The world came back. Chuck managed to keep his eyes open the second time around, and he realized the harsh light that had hurt him so, was actually the dimness of twilight or early morning. He couldn't tell which. He had no idea how long he'd been out.

"What happened?"

"We don't know," she said. Chuck looked up at her, blue eyes clear but there were tracks down her cheeks from tears. Her hair looked so beautiful.

"We?" Chuck said, clutching at anything. "Did Bryce make it?"

"Oh, Chuck, I'm so sorry, that's..."

"It's alright. We knew going in it might be a one way mission," he paused for a long moment. "Thank you for being honest with me."

Sandra winced and bit her lip. "Here, sit up a little. You need some water if you're going to be talking like this." Chuck took in his surroundings, stark white linens everywhere, long slit windows. Barred. He let Sandra feed him sips of water. She ran her fingers through his hair and smiled sadly for a moment. At last, she took the glass away, set it on the night table next to his bed. "My name isn't Sandra," she whispered.

Chuck sighed, and leaned his head away. He should have figured as much. Her fingers slipped free of his curls, and Sandr—whoever—put her hand in her lap, looking down guiltily. "I suppose that shouldn't surprise me, if they let you in here to see me. I suppose this is a prison hospital somewhere?"

She arched an eyebrow, and opened her mouth to speak, but he put up a hand to forestall her, and lumbered on before she could stop him. It was surprisingly difficult to raise his hand. "You don't look much like a Sandra, all things considered. If you don't mind me asking, what _is_ your name?"

She seemed to wilt at the formality of his tone. "Chuck, I can't tell you that," She said. "Please, you have to understand... the work I do, my real name is a liability. I can't..."

"How about a middle name then?" Chuck said, and there was a desperation that he hadn't expected in his voice. He tried to get rid of it, but it wouldn't go. "Can't you just tell me your middle name?"

"You should sleep," she said. "Now that you're through the worst of it. I'll have the nurse come in with some broth."

Chuck sighed and turned his head away from her. "Who do you work for?"

"Chuck, I..."

"You can tell me that much at least, San—" Chuck glared. "What should I call you then, if not Sandra. You've made me accustomed to the name, the least you can do is give me another, false or not."

"Sarah," she said. "Sarah Walker. I'm in the Secret Service."

Chuck's glare died back, just a touch, and he bit back a yawn. "Sarah," he said as if tasting the name. It suited her, more than Sandra had, at any rate. "The Secret Service? Why—oh... the machine."

"Yes..."

"The casting dies... Your superiors thought they were for... counterfeiting," Chuck said, it was difficult to speak, and he thought he was slurring his words. "And so they sent you to check up on us. To get close to me... so that I would betray my father's secrets. Was any of it real?" Another yawn nearly cracked his jaw.

She half turned away, and Chuck fixed his eyes on her face, as she reacted. Sarah was a much better actress than he expected. A single tear rolled down her cheek. How much of that was genuine, how much trained response? The puzzle was smashed now, he couldn't tell, and now his vision was clouding up again. She didn't give him any other answer than that tear. "Chuck, we need to know what you saw. What did your father build for Roark? People are combing through the wreckage now, but no one really understands what they're looking at. What did you see?"

"You dosed me with something..." he muttered.

"Chuck please, what did you see?"

"Everything," Chuck whispered. "I saw everything."

Sleep took him.

* * *

"How is he?" Roan Montgomery asked, leaning against his cane. His coat and trousers had gold embroidery at the cuffs, and down the side of the legs. Ridiculous frippery. Sarah turned on her stool, adjusted the bandage where shrapnel from the blast had sliced her. She of course wore her usual white blouse and sturdy wool trousers. Sarah had a leather vest on over the blouse, buttoned securely and with her Secret Service badge prominent on her chest. Sensible clothes. Her boots were oiled to perfection, not shined so stiff they would crack if you stepped wrong like Roan Montgomery's. Perhaps she looked plain in comparison to the prancing peacock her supervisor presented, but she wouldn't trip over lace hanging out of her cuffs either.

Sarah shrugged. "He came awake for a few minutes, but he was still only half there," she explained. "I gave him that concoction the doctors left out. He's sleeping now."

"Did he see anything? Does he remember?"

"I don't..." Sarah shrugged. "I don't know."

Roan sighed. "We'll just have to wait and see. But he's lucid? His brain didn't shut down?"

Sarah frowned. "His brain? How much do you know about this machine?"

Montgomery merely waved it away. "Need to know, darling."

"I'm not your darling," she growled.

He waved that away as well, turning to one of the heavily muscled agents behind him. "Quite right. Force of habit, sorry, Walker." Montgomery snapped his finger at one of the treasury agents. "My envelope?"

The other agent produced a thick leather envelope and passed it over. "Sir," was all he said.

Montgomery fiddled with the thick string tying the envelope shut and finally got it open. "I don't think you've seen this yet, Agent Walker. He pulled a large glossy photograph from the envelope and brandished it at her. Sarah took it and glanced at in. She arched an eyebrow.

"What am I looking at?" she said, frowning.

"We don't know, obviously," Roan said in a mildly patronizing tone of voice. "I'm having copies messenger-ed to Tesla and Edison both. They signed secrecy agreements years ago. For something like this, we need the best. Maybe one of them will have better luck than my analyst."

"It's some kind of craft?" Sarah said, only half a question. "What's this stuff in the background? Is that a little bit of coastline down at the bottom?"

"Yes. My men believe it's Florida."

Sarah's eyes widened in shock. "Do you... how high up is this thing then?"

"My analyst tells me the math is simple enough," Roan said. "I'll take his word for it. From the scale of the man-shape, and judging by the curvature? Three-hundred-seventy miles, give or take."

"Jesus," Sarah breathed. "What the hell was in that house? A telescope? Is that up there looking down at us?"

"We don't know," Roan said, shrugging. "And that's the problem. President Harrison is demanding answers, and I don't have any. Good old Benjamin wants results posthaste. He's worried about the presidential race. Cleveland might just get his old job back. Now, it seems like you've established some sort of... rapport with young Mr. Bartowski. I want you to use that. Figure out what he can tell us."

Sarah narrowed her eyes and tapped the handle of one of her revolvers with a fingertip. "I'll 'rapport' you, if you don't wipe that grin off your face."

Montgomery laughed. "Of course, Agent Walker, colorful as ever," he said. "Still. Find out what he knows. If he's been compromised by the Ring..."

"He hasn't," Sarah said almost before Roan had finished speaking.

He cocked his head and the knowing grin came back. "I see Mr. Bertruski has indeed made an impression on you, Agent Walker."

"Bartowski. His name is Bartowski, not Bertruski," Sarah corrected. Roan's smirk widened.

"Of course," he minced. "My mistake. Show him the picture, maybe that will loosen his tongue. If you can't find a more pleasant way of doing so." Sarah bristled, but Montgomery went on before she could come up with anything to say to that. "Tell him whatever you need to to secure his cooperation, even the truth, if it comes to that. It's not like he's going to be running around loose once he gets out of that hospital bed. Anyway, I really must be going. Boston is quite inviting this time of year, and I have a 'dinner' engagement I shouldn't keep waiting," He flashed teeth at her. "Twins, would you believe?"

Sarah rolled her eyes and snatched the envelope from him, glad to be rid of the man. Montgomery collected one of the agents on his way out, but another stayed at the door; whether it was to keep an eye on Chuck, or her, Sarah suddenly had no idea.

* * *

When Chuck woke again, it was after nightfall, so it must have been twilight when he first awoke, or he'd slept another twelve hours, and he wasn't hungry enough for that. He felt much better, physically speaking. But now he remembered the horror and the panic in the Tesseract chamber, right up until the moment he was mesmerized by the images. After that, everything was blank until he woke up with Sand—Sarah holding his hand. He knew he'd seen something, his answer to Sarah's question had been an honest one. He had seen everything. He just couldn't remember any of it. There was just the impression in his psyche, it felt like a lead weight on the fabric of his mind, a jumbled up ball of memories that if he poked at it wrong, might explode and burn him to ash. The nurse came in, busting him out of his musings with some lukewarm broth that she practically forced down his throat. She had the arms for it, tall for a woman and built like a barrel, beefy arms held his head while she tipped the bowl.

Chuck finally managed to fight her off after the third bowl. He called it fighting her off, but more than likely she was just satisfied that he'd gotten enough for a first feeding. The nurse was leaving, and halfway across the room when she passed a still shape leaning against the far wall. Chuck hadn't noticed at first, until it moved, and resolved itself into Sarah. She was wearing a dark brown leather coat that fell just to mid-thigh. It wasn't quite a duster, and Chuck wasn't quite sure what to call it, if there was a name for it... and he winced and clutched his temples. "Ow," he said. Sarah darted over so fast, it seemed like she didn't bother with the intervening distance.

"Are you okay?" she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and turning to put one hand to his forehead. "You don't have a fever."

"Yeah I think I'm alright now," he tried to laugh it off. "Must be after-effects..."

"After effects of what?" Sarah said. "Do you remember what happened at the Roark mansion?"

Chuck shrugged, unsure what he should tell her. "No, not really. What did happen? You said something before about wreckage I think? Didn't you, Agent Walker?"

Sarah winced. "I thought I told you to—"

"You told me to call you Sandra," Chuck said. "I trusted you..."

"Chuck, I'm sorry," Sarah started. "Please, I need you to know—"

"My friends call me Chuck," he said. "I don't even know who you are."

"I," she said, and stopped when her voice quavered. She turned away and put her hands in her lap, looking down at them. Her voice was steady again when she continued. "I'm sorry, but I got used to calling you Chuck. I might slip up, from time to time, Mr. Bartowski." Sarah kept her back to him and wiped her eyes before she stood up from her perch on the side of his hospital bed, and pulled over the stool she'd been sitting on before. Only then did she turn back, her face barely recognizable. Ever since he'd met her, there'd been a smile about her somehow, even if she was frowning. It didn't make sense, except that maybe it had been in her eyes. Now, her face was blank, almost wooden. It broke his heart to see. "Your government needs your help, Mr. Bartowski," she leaned forward slightly and laid a heavy envelope on his chest.

Chuck had to force the words past the lump in his throat. "What is it?"

"We're hoping you can tell us," she explained. "So far, it's the only photographic plate we could recover after the incident."

"Tell me about the incident," Chuck said, "If you don't mind?"

"I got your letter," she said, and swallowed. "I ran over as fast as I could. If I hadn't gone to the federal building first, I might have gotten there in time. I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner, but I had to... I was maybe fifty yards from the house when it exploded."

Chuck nodded, as if that was something he had expected. "Thank God."

Sarah furrowed her brow, "What the hell do you mean? The whole house collapsed."

Chuck clutched the envelope and shook his head. "It could have been worse. God, so much worse," he said and shuddered. Sarah leaned forward and grabbed his shoulders.

"Mr. Bar— damn it. Chuck, calm down. It's fine, you're safe now," she said. "You survived."

The tremors stopped and he swallowed heavily. "Did anybody else?"

It was Sarah's turn to shake her head. "We found you and Bryce together. He was pretty badly burned, and they found a stab wound. The doctors can't explain how you weren't burned too. They brought him here as well, but he was... I'll spare you the details. Still, you should know we think he had you over his shoulder, trying to get you out."

Chuck sighed. "That sounds like him," a tear rolled down his cheek and Sarah leaned in, put her hand to his face and smudged it off with her thumb. They stayed like that for a long moment, until Chuck brought up his hand to hers. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she leaned further forward, lips closing in on his. Chuck blinked and startled back. "Thank you," he said.

Sarah sighed and sat back on the stool, "Please, look at the picture Mr. Bartowski."

His eyes fixed her in place for a moment, burning into her hotly, and the ire faded. "I... don't know how I can even want to trust you, after all of this," he said. "I just... you call me that, and I can't stand to hear the words from your lips. Call me Chuck."

Her smile was dazzling. It was as if the lights had been dimmed when she was blank-faced, and now someone off behind a curtain somewhere had turned them back up. Chuck leaned forward and scanned the long empty ward with its dozen beds along each wall to make sure it truly was deserted. "I can manage that, I think," she said, after a moment to savor it. "But only if you call me Sarah."

Chuck nodded slowly. "Alright," he said. "You win, Sarah." With that, he unwound the string from the envelope's clasp. "How long?"

"What do you mean?"

"How long was I asleep?"

"Oh," she frowned down at her hands in her lap again. "Two weeks."

Chuck's eyebrows went up. "Shouldn't I be starving? I mean, I'm still hungry. That broth was a joke, but—"

"They used a funnel," Sarah said, which just drove Chuck's eyebrows higher. She shrugged. "Don't ask me, they made me leave when it was time to feed you, or bathe you." Sarah blushed at that admission.

Chuck frowned. "Wait, you stayed by my bedside unless they made you leave?"

Sarah blushed further, and gestured over her shoulder with a thumb. "I've been sleeping on one of the beds down the ward. And the head nurse only allowed that because you were sleeping the whole time. Even with my badge and everything. I'm probably going to have to find someplace else for the night. Don't get any ideas," she said. "Orders."

Chuck nodded soberly, but there was something in the way she said that. He frowned in thought. "Fair enough," he said finally. He opened the envelope and pulled the black and white image free. His eyes winced shut and he went into a convulsion, and dropped the picture. It only lasted for a second or two, but Sarah lunged forward to hold him down.

"Nurse! Nurse!" she shouted. "Get your lazy arse over here!"

"It's okay, Sarah," Chuck said softly. "I'm fine. I'm alright."

The nurse was coming through the door, and Sarah glared down at him in concern. "I want her to take a look anyway."

"Sarah, please. I'm alright. Trust me."

She looked down at him then, lips pursed at his choice of words, and she nodded slowly. Sarah waved the nurse away. "Chuck, what in the blue hell just happened?"

"I really don't know. It was so fast, I remembered..." he stopped himself from saying more.

"So you know what this picture is?" she said, and picked it up from where it had fallen on the floor.

He nodded, "Yes, I think so," he said. Sarah motioned for him to go on. Chuck swallowed nervously. And looked at his hands, so he wouldn't have to meet her eyes. He could still feel her watching him though. "Okay. This picture was taken on May 17, the year 2009. Its the shuttle Atlantis, on a repair mission to the Hubble Space Telescope," he looked up at last. "You think I'm a lunatic now, don't you?"

Sarah's hands shook, but she shook her head. "No. I don't know what happened, or if you just made all that up. My boss was here a little while ago. He had somebody do the math, based on how big the earth is, of how far up this craft—the shuttle, you called it—is. It's three hundred—"

"Seventy-two," Chuck's eyes flickered in their sockets for a moment as he finished the thought for her. He blinked and went on. "The Hubble space telescope orbits at three hundred seventy-two miles above the earth. Or it ...will."

Sarah's eyes widened and her jaw dropped. "You're just lucky this is the nineteenth century on the cusp of the twentieth, Chuck," she said. "Or I swear somebody'd try to burn you as a witch. What the hell did your father and Mr. Roark build?"

Chuck opened his mouth to spill all his secrets, and stopped. "Who am I telling," he said. She frowned and he put up a hand to forestall her telling him again how she couldn't give him her real name. "Am I telling Sarah, my friend? Who I trust God knows why? Or am I telling Agent Walker? Am I telling the United States Government?"

"Why can't they be the same person?"

"Because if the wrong people know about this. About my father's work?" Chuck said. "The Roark mansion blowing up will be the least of it."

Sarah's expression drew in on itself as she thought about it. "Sarah," she said finally. "You're telling your friend. And maybe later we'll let Agent Walker in on the secret if you think she can handle it. But only if you say so."

Chuck nodded. He didn't know how he knew it, but he just _knew_, she was telling him the truth. He could trust her with this. "Okay," he said. "Don't freak out."

Sarah cocked her head in puzzlement. "What? What is that supposed to mean?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Stop spouting nonsense words at me, and say what you mean to say."

Chuck's mouth fell open and he shivered. Now the future was slipping into his speech. He sat up straighter in the bed, and told her all of it he could remember, starting with the moment she'd left his house after the shooting.

TO BE CONTINUED...

A/N: No cliffhanger this time, just a convenient stopping point, and I don't think I need to rehash what Chuck knows as he tells it all to Sarah do I?

More story to tell. Things are churning away in this crazy brain of mine. I've even got Sarah's origin story in this AU typed up if interest is high enough. It won't fit into the timeline for a few chapters at least, but I might be convinced by nice shiny reviews to work through my updates faster.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: So, I was hoping to update _Chuck and Sarah Vs. Themselves_ yesterday, but my beta accidentally skipped a chapter and sent me back the _next _chapter. That's what I get for dumping 4 chapters on him at a time. So really it's my fault.

What this means for you, is multiple update fever this weekend.

In the meantime, Sarah fills Chuck in on a little bit of the secret spy history of the United States.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck, even in crazy western sci-fi AU. Seriously, I _live_ on Ramen noodles.

* * *

Chapter 8: The Plot, as it were, thickens

* * *

Sarah just sat for a long time at the end of Chuck's story. She could hardly believe it, even with the proof staring her in the face. It took her nearly half a minute to remember to close her mouth. Gaping at him like he'd suddenly become some kind of bizarre and incomprehensible creature wouldn't help matters. And he was obviously just as disturbed by what had happened as she was. To make matters worse, at least as far as Sarah was concerned, it had only happened to her in a proximal manner; she didn't have God knows what knowledge of the future jammed willy-nilly into her brain.

"Are you okay, Sarah?" Chuck said, and inched his hand over hers where she had let it rest on the side of his hospital bed.

Sarah felt a slow smile growing on her lips. His whole life turned upside down and he was worried about her? She really should take her hand out from under his. Her fingers twitched to move, but Chuck smiled and she changed the movement, just turning her hand palm up so she could lace her fingers through his.

"I'm just... still dealing with what you're saying. I never thought they could do such a thing."

Chuck's brow furrowed. "You mean someone different than I do when you say 'they,' don't you," Chuck said as the thought came to him. "You're not talking about Roark and my father, are you?"

Sarah winced inwardly, not letting it show on her face was difficult. "I'm not supposed to tell you," she said and shrugged with a helpless expression.

"More secrets," Chuck said. "I guess I'm going to have to get used to that, if I'm going to spend the rest of my life in Secret Service custody, shouldn't I?"

Sarah squeezed his hand. "Yes, you should," she said. "But I didn't say I wasn't going to tell you. I just wanted you to know, this is... its a personal risk, me telling you."

Chuck's eyes widened. "Sarah, you don't have to-"

"You deserve to know what we're up against," she said. "What do you know about the Culper Ring?"

"They were a spy ring, informants and the like, within the British colonial government and loyalist population during the Revolution. They reported to Washington while he was Commander of the Continental Army," Chuck said, hesitantly at first, but getting more confident as Sarah nodded along.

"Mostly right," Sarah said. "Except for one word. Are. Not were a spy-ring, Chuck. They are a spy-ring."

"One moment please," Chuck said. "Are you saying my father and Mr. Roark were spies?" He pulled his hand out of her grip and she didn't try to hold the connection. Chuck crossed his arms over his chest. Defensive body-language.

Sarah winced; that wasn't the reaction she'd expected or wanted. "No," she said. "No, of course not. Not your father at least. I thought perhaps, at first he might be, but Roark was a much more likely recruit."

"How so?"

"I'm getting to that. I have to explain more about the Ring to do that, and you keep making me digress," Sarah said. "In fact here's another digression. You aren't in a prison-hospital like you suppose."

"And the bars on the windows are just for show them?"

Sarah snorted. "Of course not, but they're not to keep you in, they're to keep potential assassins out. This is a secure hospital, for strategically important people. My bosses at the Secret Service don't know what happened, and neither does the ring. So, you're here for your own protection. Until we figure out a best course of action."

"Still sounds like a prison hospital to me," Chuck said.

Sarah sighed in exasperation. "Fine then, think what you want," she said. "Just don't try to stage a prison break until I finish explaining the situation, deal?" Sarah put out her hand, for Chuck to shake and seal the pledge. He frowned at her outstretched hand for a moment, before clasping hands. They held the shake for several seconds too long, amid an awkward silence. Chuck blushed at last and tugged his hand free. His palm had started to sweat.

"So, what is the situation?"

"Be patient," Sarah said. "This is kind of a long story if you don't know all the players going in, okay? Don't answer that." She frowned. "I'm trying to figure out how to explain. The Culper ring, lets start there. After the war, Washington basically left them out in the cold. He didn't need them anymore. Most of them, Tallmadge, Strong, Woodhull, were loyal patriots to their deaths. Others, whose names the Ring has successfully managed to hide from the eyes of history, but who had been highly placed loyalists, missed out on the power and privilege they'd enjoyed under the British. They were still patriots, then, but they thought their service during the war would guarantee them high offices in the government once independence was achieved.

Instead, for the most part, they were left to their own devices. Washington thought they should just go back to being normal citizens again. It's what most people would want, an end to the secrecy and the lying, and the danger, after years under cover, pretending to be loyal subjects of the King."

"But they didn't want that. They..." Chuck clutched his head and moaned.

"Chuck, are you alright!" Sarah said, grabbing his face in both hands and trying to soothe his pains.

"I think so..." Chuck whispered. "I just had the oddest feeling of deja vu. Like I was hearing this all for a second time. But that's insane, isn't it? I'm going mad."

"I don't know," Sarah smoothed an errant curl down on top of his head. "If your father's machine worked as you explained it to me, maybe its just a side-effect. You're remembering... maybe you're simply remembering this conversation ahead of time—"

"Do you really think so?" Chuck said. "Hmm. You're probably right about these side effect being the result of my seeing the cube started to shatter."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Chuck. I never mentioned that out loud," she said.

"What? You didn't?"

"No. And now I'm not going to, it would just be silly to repeat what you said... so you just changed the future you remembered."

"Oh, dear," Chuck said. "That certainly complicates things. What if I... well. That certainly would present a paradox, wouldn't it."

"You're doing it again!"

"God's blood! I am!" Chuck began massaging his temples.

"Are you alright?"

"My head feels funny, but it doesn't hurt. Tell your story, I'll try not to remember ahead. Or if I do, I'll just keep it to myself. This is all very strange."

Sarah nodded wordlessly. It was that, without a doubt. "Where was I... oh yes. The most well-off former members of the Culper Ring were angry with Washington for his failure to repay their service with lavish government postings and extravagant gifts. Their dissatisfaction became even greater after Washington was elected president. These members of the Culper ring used the skills they had been taught during the war, and began sowing the seeds of discord. They attempted to foment a rebellion, which Washington would need their help to defuse, proving their value and regaining them their supposedly lost status.

Of course it didn't work that way, Washington foiled the Whiskey Rebellion without their help and it made them desperate and greedy. From then on, the Ring has laid low in the weeds of our democracy, attempting to destabilize the government, sometimes for financial gain, sometimes merely to gain and hold political power."

Chuck frowned. "But they'd all be more than a hundred-fifty years old. You talk of this Ring as if it's still a viable threat. You think Roark was one of them?"

"I think whoever is in charge now was trying to recruit Roark," Sarah said. "A machine such as your father and Roark were building would be a Godsend to the Ring. They could anticipate our movements, and possibly succeed in whatever their plans are now. We don't really know what those are... the clandestine wing of the Secret Service is very small, and we're spread thin," she arched an eyebrow. "Unless you have some idea?"

Chuck shrugged. "I don't think it works that way. When I _try _to remember the future I saw, my head just starts to throb, to ache as if someone is pounding my head like an anvil. We can't know what will trigger one of my... episodes. I suppose we will discover that time, but for now, I'm afraid to let myself dwell on the memories too long."

"It was only a thought, Chuck," Sarah said. "Don't be angry with yourself. Calm down."

Chuck started to growl that he was perfectly calm, and then paused, unclenched his fists from his bedsheet and let his head fall. "I wasn't shouting at you was I?"

"No, Chuck," she said. "I just don't want you exerting yourself right now. You've come through a horrible ordeal." Sarah snorted. "We haven't even had the doctor in yet to see if you're really okay."

Chuck shook his head. "I feel fine. A little weak, but two weeks of that broth explains that. Really, I'm perfectly alright. No doctors. Please."

Sarah cocked her head. He wasn't thinking about it rationally, of course. His father had been taken away by doctors, and was gone. More doctors, faceless and unknown had taken Bryce away, his brother in all but blood, and he was gone. She blinked. And his sister, Ellie, had become a doctor and ran off. Sarah nodded slowly, understanding him a little better, the associations he must have with doctors and hospitals. "No doctors, unless you collapse."

"I tell you I'm fine. I could dance a jig to prove it."

Sarah smirked. "Probably best if you wait on that until we at least get you some trousers."

Chuck's eyes widened and he pulled up the sheet to peer underneath. He blushed crimson straight down to his neck, seemed to realize he was bare-chested as well for the first time, and yanked the sheet up under his chin.

It took a job of work getting her smirk under control, but it was worth it. "I don't see why you're embarrassed," Sarah said. "You're perfectly easy on the eyes."

"Meep," Chuck said and tried to burrow straight down into the ground.

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Relax Chuck. I can see the whole 'no clothes' thing is going to be a problem for you. I'll go get you some clothes and we can finish talking about the Ring, and all the other stuff. I'll just guess on the size... for now," her eyes suddenly seemed even more intent upon him than usual for a moment. And then she winked. "Of the clothes, I mean."

Chuck frowned, his mind still reeling from the fact that he'd been naked under the sheet for half an hour chatting with her like it was nothing. She was already halfway across the ward when he figured out her implication, and his eyebrows shot up. If it was possible, he blushed harder.

* * *

Out in the hallway, the duty nurse sat with a ratty copy of Moby Dick, the same woman who had force fed him the broth earlier. Sarah gave the woman a polite nod, and got only a haughty sniff in return. She shrugged it off, a lot of people reacted that way to the sight of a woman in trousers. Sometimes Sarah bowed to cultural pressure and donned a skirt, but usually she reserved such cumbersome garments for when a cover demanded she go unremarked, such as when she had first met Chuck.

For a brief moment, Sarah wondered if Chuck preferred her in dresses, but she crammed the thought off into the back of her skull and then jumped up and down on it. She was _not_ going to completely change who she was for any man, even one as honest and good-hearted and sweet as Chuck. He would just have to put up with her wearing mens clothes if— damn it. She was doing it again. _You barely know him, Walker! _Clothing with which to cover up Chuck's naked flesh, that was her mission. Rudeness from duty nurses and thoughts about skirts were not important right now.

Sarah muttered a curse in German as she passed the woman anyway. Wonderful language for invective, German. Even when you weren't saying anything that insulting, it often sounded like you were. Russian was almost as good in that respect, but most of her old standbys, her go to material was in Japanese. Because she could get away with calling just about anyone just about anything. She made her way down the hall, grumbling to herself in whatever language had the most offensive way of putting her current feelings.

Chuck's puritanical body-modesty was one thing, the pressure of the secret she was going to keep from the rest of the Secret Service was another thing entirely. But she had given her word, just as she had when she'd taken her oaths as an Agent of the Secret Service. Sarah's thoughts were all a jumble. Two oaths, at least as far as she was concerned, equally binding. How dare he put her in this situation. She stomped on that thought as well. No blaming Chuck. He didn't know her well enough to know how seriously she took it when she made a promise like that, he couldn't know how the sudden division of loyalty was hurting her. And now she felt a little guilty about teasing him like she had.

Sarah tore open the door to the supply closet. There were the standard white clothes they made usual hospital guests wear, piled up on a brace of shelves, but Sarah couldn't make Chuck wear them. The reminder of his father's death, just a couple weeks prior, though it must still seem like yesterday for him, would be too cruel. There had to be a caretaker or a janitor in a place this size, she reasoned as she pawed through the clothing. Surely he had an extra pair of pants and a spare shirt stashed away somewhere in case of a mishap.

She finally found a pair of heavy cotton dungarees and a flannel shirt balled up in an empty metal bucket. Sarah shook the pants out and held them up against her stomach, to check them for length. They would be only a couple inches too long for her, but Chuck was near half a foot taller than her. She tugged at the waist band, estimating the janitor's width, and trying to imagine Chuck's measurements. It was lucky he'd been shirtless for most of their conversation, she'd gotten a good look at how lean he was. The shirt was less a concern. If the sleeves were too short, he could just roll them up.

Satisfied, she started back down the hall with the 'borrowed' clothing stuffed under one arm.

* * *

Once Montgomery's idiot whore was out of earshot down the hall, Eugenia levered herself up from her chair, and flicked her copy of Moby Dick open to the page she had marked. The derringer tucked into the cut-out of the pages was a last resort, but she liked to be sure the barrels were clear and the action well-oiled in case she had call to decorate the walls with that blond strumpet's brains. However, the Director wanted the remaining Bartowski's death to appear accidental. Her superiors in the Ring had decided to wait until they were certain he wasn't going to die on his own before risking her cover.

Having a nurse in such an exclusive hospital gave them unfettered access to Senators and members of Congress, when their medical condition was chronic and severe enough to preclude house calls from a personal physician. This wasn't often, but the wealthy and powerful in business also valued their privacy, and could be found walking the hospitals halls from time to time. It was an important position, and her placement had been a coup for the Ring. Necessarily a quiet and unassuming one, but killing Bartowski was important.

Her handler had explained as much as he could. She understood that it was bad tradecraft to tell everyone everything. But he had hit the most salient point for her right off the bat. The knowledge in Bartowski's head would be priceless to the government in ferreting out Agents such as herself. This was as much about self-preservation as anything. She took no pleasure in killing, unless it was some jumped up tart who'd had everything handed to her because she had a nice face, and had probably spread her legs for half the Treasury Department to get where she was.

Eugenia surprised herself with just the tiniest bit of introspection. There was a little jealousy there, wasn't there? She'd never had the opportunity to sleep her way to the top, the one down-side of being built like a steam engine. As she approached the bed where Bartowski was lying down, aparently engrossed by something in a thick leather envelope, she schooled her features to stillness. Finesse was important, now more than ever.

* * *

Chuck was studying the picture of the shuttle Atlantis again, trying to glean more information from it. He blinked as a rush of images flutttered past his eyes. It wasn't as difficult to remain motionless this time; the pain behind his eyes wasn't quite as horrific as he remembered upon repeat exposure. Maybe he was acclimating to the process. It was a marvel, that was certain sure. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see the shuttle in his mind, how all 2.5 million parts fit together, what they did, each and every component and instrument. He almost imagined he could recreate the design if he could get his hands on a graphite pen and enough paper, but that only lasted for a minute or two. The details quickly began passing back out of his mind, into that jumbled up ball weighing down his brain.

Chuck blinked. He hadn't noticed his nurse coming back. She looked very serious for some reason. "I'm sorry to impose, ma'am. Is there any chance I could get some bread? Anything solid sounds absolutely heavenly at the moment."

"Oh, are we feeling better then?"

Chuck still cowered under the thin sheet. "I don't know about, you. But I certainly am."

The beefy nurse smiled faintly. "How about I fluff that pillow for you," she said, leaning over him.

"That's really not necessary. I'm quite comfortable," Chuck said.

"Nonsense, I insist," the beefy nurse said. She struck like a viper, while Chuck's mouth was open to reply. whipping Chuck's pillow out from behind his head and pressing it hard over his face.

Chuck shouted into the pillow, but the heavy cotton and goose down suddenly filling his mouth muffled his cry. He tried to pry at her hands, but he was week from his coma, and she was strong as an ox. Even in top condition, Chuck might not have been able to overpower her. His breath rasped in his throat, and Chuck flailed wildly, thrashing and lashing out in a vain attempt to save himself. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't fight. Not like this... he couldn't die like this... Darkness began to creep in at the edges of his vision.

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: Dun dun dun! I can't stop writing cliffhangers. I think I may have a condition.

I love and appreciate all the reviews. Keep those reviews coming, and I'll keep the chapters coming. Deal?


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Not really happy with this chapter, but I have deadlines to meet, dang it. Also, if the words 'Mega Man Rock Opera' strike you as the best idea, you know, ever? Check out _The Protomen _on itunes. They have two albums out so far. Both of which I find awesome. This concludes the completely non-story-relevant portion of this Author's note.

I really have no clue where this story is going anymore, so buckle up. It's going to be a strange ride from here on out.

Disclaimer: Forever and always. I don't own Chuck.

* * *

Chapter 9:

Sarah frowned as she came back down the hall. The nurse had been there just a minute ago, and now she was gone. She flicked her pocketwatch out and glanced at it, shuffling the bundle of clothes into her armpit. It was after ten o'clock, and she didn't think Chuck needed any special attention just then. She shrugged it off, tucked the watch back into the pocket of her vest and nudged the door open with her shoulder.

"I got some clothes, Chuck!" Sarah said, raising her voice to carry down the ward.

Sarah noticed the nurse at Chuck's bedside, and realized something was wrong from her posture, even across the room. "Should I come back later?" she said, but the words died on her lips. Everything seemed to happen at once. The blocky shoulder-ed woman was leaning forward slightly pressing something down on Chuck's bed, holding him down maybe? Her eyes widened in realization as the nurse darted a glance over her shoulder. The woman's face was contorted into a rictus of anger. Chuck's feet were thrashing helplessly.

The nurse was trying to suffocate him. Sarah's nostrils flared in anger and her hand darted for her colt. She couldn't risk firing from the hip. With Chuck in the line of fire she had to aim carefully, and a handgun wasn't exactly a precision weapon from better than fifty feet. Still, it was a practiced movement, and her muscle memory had the weapon out and trained downrange, hammer back, and lining up the sights in under a second. The brief instant she paused to aim was the difference.

The nurse spun and threw a pillow. It hung in the air, blocking her sightline to the target. Sarah's bullet caught the pillow dead center, making it float for just a split second longer. Instinct took over and Sarah dove forward into a roll between two of the empty cots. The sound of the second gunshot proved her right. The nurse had ducked Sarah's first shot and was still a threat. If there was one thing Sarah had learned in her years as a Secret Service Agent, it was always trust your instincts. She rolled left under one of the bed frames, poked her head up and saw the nurse extending her arm to take aim. It looked like a derringer. That was both barrels.

Sarah dropped back down and log-rolled under the next closest bed, sliding along the polished hardwood flooring to close the distance. She peered over the edge of the next bed to make sure the woman was reloading, and not going for another weapon. Sarah was within thirty feet, so she knew she could place a shot well enough to kill the woman outright without any risk to Chuck, but it might be good to take her alive. Sarah was a good enough shot to disable the other woman, but even a gunshot wound to one of the extremities could put the traitorous bitch into shock, and there was always the risk she wasn't working alone. The gunfire would draw the guards from their posting by the stairwell, but by then things would be decided one way or the other.

With her free hand, Sarah tore her pocket-watch free and spun it in an arc over her head by its chain for a moment. She flipped up and shoulder rolled closer, letting fly as her feet touched down again on the hardwood.

"Agh! Bitch!" The nurse growled when the brass missile smacked her in the eye, and fumbled the cartridges she was trying to slip into the open breech of her derringer. Sarah flung herself forward and up, planted her foot on another empty bed and dove into a shoulder tackle. The larger woman still had one hand to her face, clutching the knot that was rising from just above her eye, when Sarah smashed into her. Her momentum knocked the beefy nurse backward and they tumbled over Chuck's bed. He grunted a curse, and Sarah would have breathed a sigh of relief if she had time. She had been in time, he was still alive! The distraction was enough to let the heavier woman finish the tumble on top. The nurse aimed a punch at Sarah's face, using her position and superior leverage to put power behind the blow.

Sarah writhed and flinched away from the strike. The punch went wide, though the wind from its passage ruffled her hair. The nurse shouted in pain as her knuckles cracked against the hardwood. It was a better opening than Sarah could have hoped for. She wedged one knee into the nurse's gut for leverage and seized the woman's extended wrist with both hands and heaved.

The shock of the missed punch and the pain in what was at least a sprained wrist left her nearly defenseless. Sarah whipped her free leg around and planted her foot to drive upward. The beefy nurse suddenly found herself face down with Sarah's knee in her back and her arm twisted behind her painfully. "How the hell— agh! Damn it!" The nurse cut off when Sarah leaned just the tiniest bit forward, the pressure on her shoulder just a hairsbreadth away from dislocating the joint and tearing the rotator-cuff.

"I'll ask the questions," Sarah growled. "If you don't mind." The nurse moaned what was probably assent, and Sarah absently kicked the derringer out of reach of the woman's free arm. Sarah's dropped colt was safe on the other side of Chuck's bed for the moment. "Chuck, speak to me. Are you alright?"

He coughed and put a hand to his throat, gasping for breath. A nod was all he seemed to be up for at the moment, Sarah noted out of the corner of her eye. "There's some clothes on the floor a couple of beds down. Get dressed. We need to move fast."

The nurse groaned in pain and tried to wriggle free and Sarah shifted her weight slightly, driving the knee into the larger woman's lungs with barely a thought. Sarah knew a couple of escapes from such a position, but she doubted her captive was willing to suffer the dislocated shoulder it would require. "Oh quiet down, you," Sarah said and tightened her grip on the arm twisted up behind the nurse's back. "I'm going to ask you a couple questions now, and I want you to answer honestly, and civilly, or I'll become very unpleasant."  
"Not telling you anything," the nurse gasped. Sarah eased up a little on the knee so her captive could speak without pain. She wasn't completely numb to the woman's suffering, just mostly. The harridan had tried to kill Chuck, after all. "Bitch."

Sarah rolled her eyes and leaned forward to whisper in the woman's ear. "What did I just say," Sarah murmured. "About civility?" She held the tip of the woman's trapped little finger gently and bent it backwards, not enough to break it, more to let the nurse know what further disrespect might entail.

The woman whimpered something unintelligible. Sarah nodded. "I'm glad we understand each other. Now, who do you work for?"

"They'll kill me."

"Worry about what I'll do," Sarah said. "Do we need to go over what happens if you don't answer? Who?"

"Agh, don't," she grunted. "The Ring, I work for the Ring."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "I expect better from them, after all these years. I didn't even break any of your fingers. Who's your contact? Give me a name."

"I don't have any names," the burly woman said. "They never gave me their names. For security."

Sarah leaned forward again, putting tension on every joint in the woman's trapped arm, from shoulder to thumb. "Are you telling me the truth?"

"Yes! Yes!"

Sarah frowned sourly. She believed it. With a grimace, she whipped the pistol out of her left hip-holster flipped it pommel first and clouted the woman in the back of the head. "Sweet dreams, useless," Sarah said.

She holstered her pistol and stood, only to find Chuck staring at her in shock. At least he'd put on some pants and was halfway into putting on the shirt. It looked like he'd gotten halfway finished and stopped in shock. Why would he be shocked? She'd killed a man in front of him the last time they'd met, how was this any different from the last time?

"Is she dead?"

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "Of course not. That's up to the courts. I mean, she'll hang for treason and attempted murder of a Federal Agent, but that's a judiciary function. Finish getting dressed, you're distracting me, and I need to figure out our next move."

Chuck rubbed his throat, still having trouble getting his breath back. A woman—the nurse that had apparently been keeping him alive for two weeks—had just tried to kill him, and Sarah took it so matter-of-fact. Did she have ice in her veins? "Next move?" Chuck asked, fumbling his buttons.

Sarah glanced at him as she stripped the sheets off a nearby cot.

"Yes. This one was working for the Ring," Sarah said and used her teeth to start a tear in the white linens before tearing off a strip. "If they managed to infiltrate this facility, and they're willing to expend such a well-placed operative to get to you, you're in much more danger than we thought. You need to disappear."

"Disappear?" Chuck said, astonished. "Haven't I already done that?"

"You're in a government hospital, under your own name," Sarah said. She bent to tie the unconscious Ring Agent's hands behind her back. "This is all new to me too, I'm not used to protecting people. I'm more of a break in and steal evidence kind of agent."

"Isn't that illegal?" Chuck said. "Unreasonable search and seizure?"

"What's unreasonable about it?" Sarah said with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, before turning back to her work and tearing another strip. "It's not like they ever know I was there."

Chuck shook his head. "You're taking this much better than I am."

"Years of training, Chuck," Sarah said, tying a third loop to connect the Ring Agent's bound hands and feet in the small of her back. "The Ring uses the law as a weapon, hiding behind those kinds of rules. And we play along. I don't just go into people's houses at random Chuck, I have search and seizure warrants. I just don't announce myself before the search. The Ring has people in the Judiciary to tip them off, so Justice Brewer of the Supreme Court writes my warrants. If anything that makes it even more legal."

"You make my head hurt sometimes," Chuck said, that's not what the Supreme court was for, was it? "What do we do now?"

"I don't know," Sarah said. "You can't stay here. How are your legs feeling? Can you walk?"

"I haven't fallen down yet," Chuck said.

"Come on," Sarah said with a grin. "Grab the picture and lets get out of here."

The door burst open, and two men with revolvers, in military blues stormed in. Sarah pointed to her badge, and made a shooing motion with her hand. "Back to your posts."

"But!" One of them started.

Sarah rolled her eyes and tapped her badge again. "Corporal, that is an order."

They grumbled under their breath, about taking orders from a woman, but they went. Chuck frowned. "You have to deal with that a lot?"

Sarah shrugged. "You wouldn't believe what I have to deal with," then she smiled. "You haven't met my boss, after all."

"I'm sorry?"

Sarah rolled her eyes at him. "Let's get you someplace safe."

Chuck glanced around the dimly lit, empty hospital ward. "Safe? What's that? Wasn't this supposed to be safe?"

"The Ring hadn't made a move on you in all the time you'd been here," Sarah explained. "Director Montgomery thought they either didn't care, or weren't aware you had survived."

"But he was wrong."

"Well, obviously," Sarah said. "It only makes sense, in hindsight. If they had the nurse under their thumb, they could have made the attempt at any time. But if you didn't wake up, it would have been a waste of an asset."

"So, where are we going?" Chuck said. "Where can we be sure they won't look for me?"

"That's going to be a problem," Sarah said, fighting a blush. "I'm going to have to sneak you into my hired room."

"How's that a problem?"

"My landlady," Sarah said chewing her lip. "I'm quite sure she isn't going to approve. Loudly, and we can't afford making a scene." She paused and frowned in thought. "How are you at rope climbing?"

Chuck felt a nervous chuckle building. "You aren't serious, are you?"

Sarah merely arched an eyebrow. Chuck sighed and slumped his shoulders.

* * *

"I'll be right back, my lovelies, I promise," Roan Montgomery said over his shoulder as he slipped away into the powder room. Whoever had invented indoor plumbing, he sincerely hoped the man had been well compensated. At his age, being forced to venture out into the night to find an outhouse was the height of... inconvenience. He took a quick slug from his snifter of brandy and shuffled over to the commode.

"Psst," someone said from behind him. Roan spun, hand darting for the derringer he kept in the pocket of his robe. He winced and recoiled, nearly falling over in surprise.

"Damn you Walker!" he hissed. "What have I told you about sneaking up on a man like that? Is this really the best time? I have... guests. And how the bloody hell did you get in here?"

Sarah shrugged and shielded her eyes. "It's a gift and a curse Roan, being this good at my job. You mind closing the robe?"

Roan covered up hurriedly. "To what do I owe the... visit?"

"The Ring tried to kill Chuck an hour ago," Sarah said simply.

"Damn," he breathed. "What do they know?"

"Hard to say," Sarah said. "The assassin didn't know much of anything."

"You believe him?"

Sarah smirked. "Roan, you remember how persuasive I can be."

"That I do," Montgomery mused, rubbing his knee absently, where if Sarah had hit him just a little harder those years ago, he'd be crippled. "What did he say?"

"The Ring Agent?" Sarah asked. Roan nodded. "It was a she, the nurse."

"Hell," Roan sighed. "This is going to be a long night for me. And not in the way I wanted. Any idea how long the woman was compromised?"

"That's your job," Sarah said. "Chuck's safe, for now. No one except you knows about Sandra Bower, correct?"

"Of course," Roan said. "Operational security, much like foreplay, is very important to me."

Sarah merely arched an eyebrow and cracked a knuckle. Roan coughed and went on without further harassment, "yes, secrecy is quite important. No one knows. He should be safe for now at 'Sandra's place,' but how long could you keep him there?"

"Not long. The landlady is... very particular about single young ladies having gentleman callers. We need to disappear."

"We?" Roan asked. "You're including yourself? What does he know that makes Mr. Bartowski worth losing my best Agent indefinitely to play governess for him?"

Sarah hated this part. "It's complicated," she said at last. Roan snorted. "Do you trust me?"

Roan rolled his eyes. "Of course, but you have to tell me _something_."

"You know what the machine was supposed to do?"

"Yes," Montgomery said after a moment to consider if she truly needed to know. "Are you saying it worked? Does he know what it was meant to do?"

"All I can say," Sarah said. "Is that we cannot let the Ring take him."

Roan nodded slowly. He understood. Sarah breathed easier at that. She didn't have to break confidence with Chuck, or the Service. It was a relief. "Still, the Secret Service does not play nurse-maid," Montgomery said. "We have US Marshals and the military for that."

"And you trust them? All of them?" Sarah said. "He doesn't remember what happened in Roark's house, but if he ever did, and the Ring took him..."

"So we kill him," Montgomery said. Sarah tensed and her hand twitched involuntarily toward her pistol, but Roan went on. "Put an obituary in the papers, get him out of the city, at least for now, until we can determine the extent of the breach."

"Where does that leave you with the Ring?" Sarah wanted to know. "How will you—"

Montgomery cut her off with a slashing motion of his hand, then shrugged. "Not your concern anymore. If they get wind of you and Bartowski, they'll send Fulcrum after you. They still have a bounty on your head out in the Territories, if you run that far."

Sarah grinned wanly. "The Fulcrum gang is still upset about that, Roan? It was years ago."

"Vincent has a long memory," Montgomery said. "You did cost him an eye."

"How will we stay in touch?" Sarah asked. "Standard channels?"

Roan shook his head and stooped to pick up his brandy snifter from where it had fallen, there were still a few drops left. "No. I've got a new cipher for you, I'll drop it with your travel stipend at dead-drop six before noon. Take out a coded advertisement in one of the big papers if he remembers something. Other than that, I want you to be a ghost. That shouldn't be much of a stretch for you, eh Walker?" He turned back to gauge her response, "Walker?" the room was empty but for himself. Roan rolled his eyes. "I hate it when she does that."

* * *

There was a banging on the door that went on and on, until finally it dragged Chuck from his slumber. He tossed the blanket off and struggled to his feet, stumbling toward the door. He blinked sleep out of his eyes and tried to open the door. The lock wasn't how he remembered it, and he fumbled with the latches and deadbolts, trying to solve the puzzle. When had he put double deadbolts on the door to his room? His head was fuzzy, from sleep, and still aching from something else he couldn't remember. Why wasn't the door opening now? He shipped the heavy bar aside and tried again. Still no good, Chuck glanced up in desperation and a grin spread across his face. Top and bottom latches as well, he vaguely recalled a man with a gun in the shop, and decided he must have put them in after the burglary as an added security measure.

Chuck finally had the door unfastened, and he pulled the portal open in triumph. An old woman with dark gray hair done up in a heavy braid, wearing a severe dark colored dress stared at him in shock for a moment. Chuck had no earthly clue who she could be. Her eyes seemed ready to pop out of her head. He realized somehow he'd lost his shirt again, though thankfully he still had on the trousers Sarah had found for him. Chuck blinked as memory began percolating back into his head. He was in Sarah's—no, Sandra's, she'd hired it under her fake name—rented room at Mrs. Norris' boardinghouse, and he wasn't supposed to answer the door under any circumstances, but his head was all fuzzy, and it had slipped his mind. He blinked again, and it seemed to help his memories return faster. Sarah had made him take a shot of whiskey so he could sleep again, because she had to go out and—

The old woman had a broom now, that she must have plucked out of thin air because she hadn't had it a moment ago. "You get out of there this instant!" she said and swung the broom at him. Chuck ducked and nearly lost his balance. His head was still fuzzy, and he had a sudden vision of Sarah laughing as he took another shot for nerves. Then of her having to take the bottle back and hold it over her head to keep it away from him. He was drunk, Chuck realized. His diet over the last two weeks had left much to be desired, and Sarah had gotten him drunk and tucked him into bed while she went off who knows where to get into trouble and probably shoot more people. He ducked another clumsy swing from Sarah's landlady, and this time he did lose his balance and fell backwards onto his tailbone.

"Ow," he said, but not as urgently as he should have. His head was still fuzzy, and he suddenly found the entire situation hilarious. Chuck started laughing softly to himself as the old woman wound up another swing. His eyes widened as the broom handle came around, but he stood no chance of dodging it. Flashing lights went off in his head, and darkness took him. As he slumped, his last thought was that the nap would do him good.

* * *

Sarah levered herself carefully through the window, and heard a shout as her boots touched down on her floor. Her eyes widened as she took in the tableau, Chuck dodging swings from her landlady's broom, swaying on his feet, still obviously drunk from the whiskey. He fell over onto his rear and Sarah winced. She darted forward as Mrs. Norris leveled another swing straight at Chuck's head, but she was a second too late.

Sarah glared frozen death at her landlady and snatched the broom away, tossing it angrily to the ground behind her. "What do you think you're doing?" Sarah snapped and bent to check on Chuck. His pulse was regular and she hadn't busted his scalp, so it was a safe bet his skull was intact as well. His breathing seemed alright as well. The inventory of injuries and vital signs was second nature to her, and only took Sarah a handful of seconds. She rounded on her landlady, still angry and glowering her best at the woman.

Mrs. Norris met her glare for glare. "Me?" she said. "What are you doing! What kind of woman are you, with a man in your room at this time of night? It's positively indecent. You know my rules, Miss Bower! All gentleman callers must present themselves for inspection at a decent hour and there is no extra-marital cohabitation under my roof! You signed the lease!"

Sarah blushed, and cringed. The old bat thought _that_! Not that she wouldn't consider—Sarah shut down that line of thought with a blush. "We weren't!" Sarah said, and shook her head. Dear lord, there was no way to explain anything to this woman without compromising Chuck's identity, and her blushes at the mere thought certainly couldn't be helping. Mrs. Norris was the biggest gossip Sarah had ever met, so if Chuck's name found its way to her ears, half of Boston would know in three days time. For a brief moment, she contemplated shooting the woman between the eyes, but that would just make things worse, not better.

"I should have known!" Mrs. Norris shouted. "Coming and going at all hours of the night, dressing in mens clothes! Wearing a gun!"

"Would you calm down?" Sarah said, soothingly. "You'll wake up the whole..." shouting came from downstairs, and Sarah felt herself deflate. "House." Mrs. Norris looked like she was about to start up again, so she thought fast. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. Nothing happened, I just didn't want..." Sarah paused to think, what might be an acceptable reason for... "We went out to celebrate, and he had too much to drink. I didn't want his parents to see him like this, and..."

Mrs. Norris' eyes narrowed. "Celebrate what?"

"Our engagement," the words were out of Sarah's mouth before she could even think twice about it. Everything had been going nonstop since Chuck woke up in the hospital and, now she was holding her breath to see if Mrs. Norris was buying her story.

"I don't see a ring on your finger," the old harpy said skeptically.

Sarah's thoughts were racing, but her mouth beat her to it, "It's being resized. Too small." She tried to keep the hopeful expression off her face, and crossed her fingers behind her back.

Mrs. Norris cocked her head and studied Sarah's expression. Just the right hint of contrition, she hoped. Finally she nodded. "He's sleeping on the floor, then?"

"Of course," Sarah said, trying to sound scandalized.

Mrs. Norris' expression changed subtly, and she leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper. "Alright. I'll make an exception this once. I know that a girl your age, with your temperament, and tendency to dress mannish like you do, you can't be choosy for a husband," with every word Sarah's eyebrows went up and her cheeks got a little redder, from embarrassment and from annoyance both. "If you need to make up to him for that little bump I gave him, to keep him interested so's he'll go through with the wedding? I'll make an exception on the other house rule as well. Just try to be discrete." And then, to top it off, the old crone winked knowingly at her.

Sarah blinked at the woman's retreating back and closed the door without another word. She leaned back against the paneling and shuddered. She let her head fall into her hands and laughed softly, a touch manic. Where was the Mrs. Norris Sarah thought she knew, and who had replaced her with that dirty-minded old shrew?

Sarah shook her head and pushed away from the door. Even as exhausted as she was, Sarah re-fastened both deadbolts, the top and bottom stops and threw the heavy bar across the door before yanking a blanket off the bed to drape over Chuck where he lay. She inspected the place where he'd been hit carefully, and gently slipped a pillow under his head. Sarah paused for a moment, debating, before she bent and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead.

She stood, and took half a dozen steps to the bed, where she collapsed, fully clothed and still with her boots on. It would be good to actually get a decent night's sleep, after two weeks of fretting at Chuck's bedside. She was immensely thankful to whatever god had smiled on her today, that Chuck had somehow awoken on the same day that she'd finally managed to pry herself away from her vigil to clean herself up a little. Who knows how he would have reacted if he thought she had worried herself sick over him? She was still trying to convince herself that she hadn't been a nervous wreck for near on two weeks, when she finally succumbed to exhaustion and slept.

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: If you have any suggestions as to where you think this story should be going, drop me a review, or a PM or whatever. I've gotten the story to the point I originally envisioned, Chuck and Sarah + intersect equivalent, getting ready to go on the run from the Ring, in the 19th century. I just never got around to outlining the second and third acts.

I know Casey shows up, and Sarah continues to kick asses and take names. Beyond that? Big ol' blank spot.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Mostly a transitional chapter, and a really difficult one to write because I kept wanting to just write Chuck and Sarah banter and not move the plot forward, so I think it feels a little rushed near the end. I just didn't want this to be an eight or nine thousand word chapter.

Chapter Ten:

The smell of bacon brought Sarah out of a dreamless sleep. It felt like her head had hit the pillow only seconds earlier. Apparently she had needed rest more than she thought. It shouldn't have been as surprising as it was, given how little she'd been able to force herself to sleep over the two weeks Chuck had been unconscious. Sarah could usually get by with less sleep than most people, but two straight weeks of catching little cat-naps instead of a decent night's worth had taken their toll. She was sore where she'd slept on one of her guns. Served her right for not taking the time to lose the gun-belt the night before. It was just blind luck that she hadn't tossed and turned like usual and caught the hammer on something and ended blowing a hole in her leg. On top of the Ring trying to kill Chuck in his hospital bed, that would have been the perfect end to a horrible day.

Levering herself up to a sitting position and rubbing her hip, Sarah grinned when she spotted Chuck sprawled out on the floor, snoring with a sound like a bandsaw and drooling a little onto the pillow she'd given him. She grunted and threw her legs over the edge of the bed and shrugged out of her leather vest. Sarah stopped with her hands on the buttons of her shirt and glanced at Chuck again. He was still asleep, but she was suddenly self-conscious and hauled herself to her feet to find the screen Mrs. Norris charged all her tenants an extra four cents a month to rent. Sarah hadn't had much call to use the thing, and she'd piled up a fair amount of debris in front of where it had been tucked away in the corner.

Sarah trusted door locks much better than little frilly screens, but she was glad she had a privacy screen today. Chuck would have been mortified if he woke up while she was changing, and Sarah had to admit, she wouldn't have been much better off. She had a couple of nice dresses and matching underthings in the roomy closet along with her rifle and her weapons trunk and Sarah spread the screen out between her and Chuck while she changed.

Once she had the pale green dress settled over her idiotic petticoats, Sarah shoved the screen back into its corner and sat on the edge of her bed to tug her boots back on. Chuck mumbled in his sleep, rolled over onto his back and began snoring softly, apparently she needn't have bothered with the screen. If they were going to be disappearing together for however long, it seemed like they would eventually have to develop some kind of system. Or, she could just tear all of his clothes off and—Sarah shrugged that thought away. Mrs. Norris' implicit approval notwithstanding, she doubted Chuck would be anything except mortified if she tried it.

She scooped up her gunbelt, and after a moment's thought, sighed and headed back to stow it in the trunk in her closet. Until they were out of the city, Sarah had to be 'Sandra,' and she really didn't like going without a decent six-gun at her side. Then she brightened and kicked the trunk lid back down and tossed the gunbelt on the bed to wake up her new gun-carrying-beard, Charles Bartowski. She could load him down with all the ordinance she could ever need without drawing the slightest amount of attention to herself, and anyone who knew Chuck wouldn't expect him to be wearing irons, so it worked as a kind of doubled disguise.

When she bent down to shake him awake, Chuck mumbled her name in his sleep, and Sarah grinned. She paused to try to listen in, but he lapsed back into silence. Sarah pouted and poked him sharply in the side with her finger. "Rise and shine, sleeping beauty."

"Muh?" Chuck said groggily. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and stared up at her in surprise. It took him only a few seconds to visibly process where he was, his expression flickering from confusion to pained to accepting. "What time is it?" he finally asked.

Sarah frowned and took out her pocket-watch. "I've no idea," she said, proffering the dented brass case to him. "It hasn't worked since I pegged that horrible woman who tried to kill you in the eye with it."

"Oh, I can probably fix that," Chuck said brightly, excited to be of use, and probably, excited to be back to some kind of familiar territory. "I just need to stop by the store and get my tools."

Sarah shook her head. "No, Chuck. You can't go back. You're dead. Roan will have the obituary in the paper today. If you show up at your house now, it will ruin our cover."

Chuck sat up and hugged his knees. "What cover is that, if you don't mind me asking?" he said a little waspishly. Sarah frowned at his tone, unexpected, but understandable, she supposed, then she blushed when she recalled the story she'd told Mrs. Norris the night before.

Sarah shrugged one shoulder and retreated to sit in her desk chair. She had to stop herself from flipping the chair around backward so she could straddle the back. It didn't work quite so well in skirts, and she'd forgotten momentarily. Once she settled herself primly in her seat, Sarah leaned her elbows on her knees and took a deep breath. "We're engaged."

Chuck's eyebrows rose. "Well," he said. There was a long pause while he pondered his response. "That was quick." Sarah grinned and rolled her eyes. At least he was taking it well. She'd had a touch of doubt given his earlier reaction. Chuck arched an eyebrow. "Given the way my head feels, I assume... did something happen last night with your landlady?"

"Yes..." Sarah said, drawing the word out. "You could say that. You answered the door, a little... tipsy, and I had to do some fast talking to get her to go away."

"Ah," Chuck said, nodding. "That explains my sudden proposal then. Is that bacon I smell?"

"About that..." Sarah said. "Breakfast is going to be awkward. Mrs. Norris thinks that..." she blushed furiously. Damn that innocently bewildered look on his face, was he going to make her say it right out? Sarah raised both eyebrows pointedly, and worried briefly that a highly inappropriate hand gesture would be necessary, but after a moment Chuck seemed to cotton on and his blushes matched hers, or maybe even did her one better, she was glad to see.

"Oh," he said thoughtfully, and fell silent. Sarah frowned. That wasn't quite the reaction she'd—hoped for was too strong— "If I'm dead, how am I also engaged to you? To Sandra I suppose that means?" His eyes popped. "Jill. I have to tell her about Bryce. She deserves to know that—"

Sarah held up a hand and he stopped. "She knows. After the explosion, he was listed in the newspaper among the dead. She tried to get into the hospital to see you."

"I thought that was supposed to be secret?"

"There's 'secret' and there's really secret," Sarah said. "And the second one doesn't often apply to a man with as much money as Dr. Julius Roberts. I did a little background research on her, before deciding she didn't need to see you."

Chuck scowled. "You decided," he said. "Did you think she was a threat to me?" Sarah shrugged helplessly and dropped her eyes from his gaze, mumbled something. "I didn't catch that."

Sarah glared at him. "No, you hadn't woken up. And she just wanted to pass on her news. She's getting married."

"What? To who?"

"Some Englishman. The ceremony was a couple days ago."

"Barker?" Chuck said, louder than he meant to. "Bryce's body isn't even cold and she's already married Cole Barker!"

"Why do you care?"

Chuck blinked and it was his turn to fail to meet eyes with her. "I—" he froze, and Sarah nodded. She'd thought so. Well at least the woman was safely off the market. Chuck didn't strike her as the kind of man to make a fool of himself over a married woman. Sarah was a little startled at the possessive streak her thoughts seemed to have developed of late, and she tried to keep the startlement and the possessiveness off her face.

"No matter," Sarah said and stood. She grabbed her gunbelt off the bed and tossed it at him. "Put that on and lets go beard the lion in her den. Hopefully we can get away from Mrs. Norris' breakfast table before too long. We need to be on the move, quickly." Chuck stared at the weapon belt in confusion for a moment.

"Oh. Sandra Bower can't wear a pistol on her hip?" he asked.

"Exactly," she said.

Chuck nodded and stood up to put on the belt, but he fumbled and nearly dropped it. Sarah went to him and helped him buckle it on properly. It was sized for Sarah's waist and so it took some doing, even lean as he was, to get the buckle to fasten. He grunted softly as she tugged the belt tight. Sarah's eyes darted up once she finished adjusting the guns on his hips and she realized how close they were standing and the way Chuck's breathing had stopped, and now her heart was pounding in her ears.

Sarah tilted her head and felt her lips part slightly, waiting for him to make a move. Chuck looked down at her and he blushed and licked his lips nervously, reminding her of some bizarre lizard and the moment broke. She took a hasty step backward and took a huge gulp of air to calm herself. What the hell was that? This never happened to her. Sarah shook her head. "We can't afford to do anything foolish, Chuck," she said and bit her lip.

"What's foolish about it?"

"We're in enough danger, without..." Sarah struggled for the right word. "Distractions. Come on, we need to get moving."

* * *

Breakfast was exactly as awkward as Sarah and Chuck had expected, but they managed to get free after only half an hour's worth of intrusive questions about when the ceremony was, or where they were going to live, or what church they were planning to use. Sarah only thought she was going to blush herself to death once or twice, which was a sight better than she'd hoped for. Mrs. Norris insisted Sarah eat enough bacon that she felt a touch queasy after, on the logic that she would need the heavy fats for the 'baby,' and Sarah tried not to shudder inwardly. The idea of children wasn't one that had been on her mind at all until that horrible old woman had brought it up. She wasn't anywhere near too old, but at the same time, she wasn't exactly a spring chicken anymore and damn the woman for even putting the idea in her head because she had enough trouble thinking straight around Chuck as it was without putting _that_ in there as well.

They said their goodbyes and finally got out the door a little after ten, by the grandfather clock in the front hall, which left them a couple of hours before she could be sure her travel funds and whatever documents she needed to back them up would be in her dead drop. "Do you know where we're going to go, to disappear I mean?"

Sarah shrugged and grabbed his arm, looping hers through his firmly. "We're supposed to be engaged, remember? At least act like you're happy to know me," she said sourly. He'd been a little off ever since he'd woken up. "Is something wrong?"

"It just all seems so fast," Chuck explained. "I realize I was... asleep for a while, but for me, yesterday Bryce was writing Jill a letter telling her he loved her and why we had to do what we did, and she gets that letter and what? Immediately goes off and marries a man she can't even stand?" He sighed heavily. "I guess I'll never understand women."

Sarah frowned. She hadn't thought of it like that, her odd tendency to jealousy where Chuck was concerned had disguised the potential oddity from her. "Well I didn't know that about her not liking Barker. Do you expect me to do anything about it? Lots of women end up married to men they can't stand, I don't know that it's Secret Service business."

"It's not. But I'm her friend, can't I be worried about her?" Chuck said, just a little exasperated.

"Of course," Sarah said eventually as they walked. "I thought maybe you should be a little worried about yourself is all. Do you realize how dangerous the Ring really is?"

"You handled that woman in the hospital easy enough," Chuck protested. "She didn't stand a chance."

Sarah snorted. "Your confidence in me is flattering, Chuck. But the Ring has fingers in almost every branch of government. The incident at the hospital just underscores it. We don't know how far up they go, and that's the scary part. We have to assume that anyone could be a Ring operative."

Chuck arched an eyebrow. "Even that vagrant down the alley we just passed, living in filth?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Perhaps not, but it would behoove you to be just a little more scared of them. You're awful glib for someone who survived an assassination attempt barely twelve hours ago."

He frowned sourly at that. "I was trying to impress you with my nerve and calm aplomb; is my manly charm not working?"

Sarah laughed softly at that one. It was working more than she cared to admit, but if he stayed in denial about the danger, protecting him would be extraordinarily difficult. "Not in the slightest," she managed to say with a straight face, and from his expression, he wasn't sure if she was lying or not. Good; she needed to keep him guessing on that front if she stood any chance of viewing _anything _objectively. For both their sakes, Sarah needed to be calm and cool and professional.

The silence went on as they turned a corner onto one of the larger thoroughfares. Down at the corner a newsboy was hawking his wares, proclaiming the morning headlines, and some that would inevitably be nowhere to be found if one purchased a copy. A streetcar's bell sounded, spurring Chuck to say something. "So, do you have a plan then?"

"It's a work in progress," she said. "First you need some clothes. And a gun."

Chuck let his hands fall to his hips. "What's wrong with these?"

Sarah scowled. "Nothing, but they're still mine. You're just less conspicuous wearing them. We'll probably need to avoid big cities, and the Ring is less entrenched in the interior of the country. The plains states, or maybe out in the territories, we'd be safest from them. But it can be dangerous. You'll need to have your own gun."

"Oh," Chuck said. The sea-change coming over his life was suddenly making itself known. He'd let himself if not forget about, at least go numb to the losses he'd suffered, first his father, then Bryce, now his old life as Chuck Bartowski was coming to an end. He hadn't even given that part any thought. "Do I still get to be 'Chuck' at least?"

Sarah thought about it for a moment. "Of course," she said. "But you'll have to be Chuck Smith, or something if anybody asks. Bartowski is too uncommon a name."

Chuck nodded. That only made sense. "Hey!" someone shouted. "You two getting on or what?"

They stared in shock. The streetcar had been stopped for some time, but neither Chuck or Sarah had noticed. Sarah nodded and motioned him forward. Chuck shrugged and stepped up, before turning back to give Sarah a hand into the streetcar. Once they found seats, they spent the trip in silence, until Chuck couldn't stand it anymore.

"Where are we going?" he asked. "I don't know where this line goes."

"Macy's department store. You need clothes, and they sell firearms as well. There's probably a good boot-maker near there too. Those shoes I scrounged at the hospital will just attract attention to you outside of the city. And we don't want that."

"Hmm," Chuck said with a grin. "If we're trying _not_ to attract attention, they probably should have sent an uglier Agent."

* * *

Chuck bought a newspaper at the corner to scan the obituaries, despite Sarah's insistence that it would just make him sad to see it in print. It wasn't much at all, just a couple of lines; his name, date of birth, date of 'death' and a 'survived by his sister Eleanor Faye Woodcombe of New Orleans.

"How'd you know her full name?" Chuck said. "I only ever just called her Ellie."

"What part of _Secret_ Service didn't you understand?" Sarah smirked. "I can't just give away my sources like that. You have to earn it." She snatched the newspaper out of his hands and tossed it in the big wrought-iron wastebin out front of the store. The headline jumped out at him.

_**Homestead Strike Continues. **_

_**Pinkerton Detective Agency Strikebreakers captured and beaten. **_

But the date was a week in the future. Chuck shivered and looked at the headline again.

_**Homestead Ironworks Workers Locked Out.**_

That was today's headline, Chuck squeezed his eyes shut against the images. Barges packed with gunmen and flaming rail-cars. He shook his head and felt Sarah's hand on his shoulder.

Sarah frowned at him, concern etched into her features. "Are you... what happened. You saw something?"

"Yes," Chuck said as if the words were being drawn out of him like a rotten tooth. "I don't see as they'd believe me, but yeah. I saw something." Chuck reached in folded the paper so he couldn't see the headlines, and tossed it back in.

"Tell me," she said. "Please?"

Chuck sighed and gestured at the wastebin. "Steelworkers in Pennsylvania went on strike two days ago at Homestead. The Carnegie steel mill. It doesn't end well, for anyone."

Sarah snatched the paper and scanned the article, checking up on him. "You didn't read that from this article, did you, Chuck? It was..." she paused to make sure no one nearby was lingering to catch what they were saying. The street was relatively clear around them. Sarah scrunched up her face in thought, then rolled up the newspaper and thwacked it into the palm of her other hand pensively. "We need to test this, figure out what kind of things you can learn from the newspaper."

"But not now?" Chuck said hopefully.

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Yes," she said. "We need to get you some traveling clothes, and some other supplies."

"Uh..." Chuck said, and looked down at his feet, at the shoddy workman's shoes they'd scrounged the night before. "About that? How are we going to pay for them?"

Sarah grinned and arched an eyebrow in mock-surprise. "Expense account," she said. Her teeth flashed and her smile was dazzling. "Didn't I explain how this works, Chuck? You're my kept man, I can't have you looking so shabby. Mrs. Norris was suspicious enough this morning, but your drunkenness last night went to explaining that. We need to get you looking like a proper gentleman again."

Chuck's eyebrows drew together in concern, Sarah grabbed his arm and dragged him into the huge store that took up an entire block. With a sinking feeling, he resigned himself to trying on clothing for the entire day.

Of course, she had only been joking about dressing him up fancy. He ended with a week's worth of serviceable but nondescript clothes and just the one fancy dress coat and breeches. Still, his fears of being penned up in a changing room all day proved mostly justified. Chuck didn't quite understand what the difference was between the one shade of brown and the five others he had to try on and walk around in before she went ahead and bought the first one anyway. That would have been quite enough, if that had been all, but Sarah walked in on him with his shirt off on two separate occasions, though he was certain the second time had been 'accidentally' on purpose. He couldn't do anything about her teasing except blush and get a shirt on as quick as he could.

It was well into the afternoon by the time they finally picked up everything Sarah insisted he would need, new clothes, boots, a hat, and a revolver. Chuck started to remember the future history of the gun she'd decided on, and he somehow managed to hold the images off. He blinked after a moment, and proceeded to avoid looking too closely at it while the Macy's clerk packed it along with his clothes into a handful of boxes. Which it turned out Chuck had to carry.

They ate a quick lunch standing up, some kind of sandwich shop just across the street, and then Sarah dragged him cross-town to find the dead-drop. She retrieved a thick envelope from a cubby behind a loose brick in a wall of a ramshackle building in a bad part of town. Chuck was worried that they might have trouble with the local gang, kept one hand on the handle of the revolver at his right him and tried to look like a hardened killer.

Once they were back on a streetcar heading back to Sarah's rented room and Mrs. Norris' fine example of the North American nosy-parker, she pulled the envolope out, produced a stack of hundred dollar bills. "What is all that for?" Chuck asked in a hasty whisper, looking around nervously to be certain no one had seen the fortune Sarah had just revealed.

"We don't know how long we'll be on the run," Sarah said. She split the pile of bills and stuffed half the money into his interior coat pocket. "In case we get separated."

"We're leaving tonight?" The weight of money in his pocket felt odd.

"Yes," Sarah said, and glanced at her new pocketwatch. Chuck tried not to pout at her insistence on buying a new one, when he could just as easily have fixed the old one himself. It was probably an easy fix anyway, and Chuck had slipped the dented watch into his luggage on the off chance Sarah would let him slip away to find a new set of tools. "The train leaves in a couple hours."

"This is all moving really fast," Chuck said.

Sarah shrugged. "It has to. The Ring doesn't know 'Agent Walker' is a woman, but it probably won't take them long to figure that out."

"Wait, wait," Chuck said. "They don't know you're a woman? I find that very hard to believe. I mean... that is. You are quite fetching and... I'm going to just be quiet the rest of the week. How does that sound?"

Sarah laughed, loudly and a woman sitting in the seat in front of them, wearing a hat with a beaded fringe that fell and covered her features as if she was going to a funeral, turned and shushed them. Sarah laughed all the louder until the woman opened her mouth to say something. She arched an eyebrow and the woman met Sarah's eyes. The woman's mouth shut abruptly and she turned back to face forward. Sarah's laughter had subsided and she dabbed a tear from the corner of her eye before leaning into him a little and linking arms with him again. "To answer your question: the reason the Ring doesn't know 'Agent Walker' is a woman, is that apart from the nurse last night, no Ring operative has ever laid eyes on me and lived to tell about it."

Chuck swallowed nervously, and their conversation ground to a halt.

It was a long awkward streetcar ride back to Mrs. Norris' boardinghouse, where a long awkward dinner followed. Sarah finally excused herself and went upstairs to pack her trunk while Mrs. Norris kept Chuck downstairs. She grilled him mercilessly about his relationship with 'Sandra,' and he found himself telling more of the truth than he should have. He told the old battleaxe how he'd met her, and that they'd really only just met, and then realized his error and had to backpedal and explain their sudden engagement in flowery romantic language, never a Bartowski strong suit as far back as they could trace the line. And now she was giving him advice on how to 'tame' her, as if that would have been something he _wanted_ to do if they were actually together. If Sarah wasn't ready to go soon, he would pull all of his hair out in frustration.

"Now the important thing, young man, is that..." Chuck tuned her out, it was undoubtedly going to be something embarrassing or vulgar, and he'd blushed enough earlier that day in the fitting room to last him a week as it was. His lack of attention to Mrs. Norris' ramblings let him notice Sarah, leaning against the doorframe and watching with a slightly manic grin. She had changed into much less frilly dress, dark gray with her leather coat over it.

Chuck stood abrubtly, and Mrs. Norris startled back in her heavily patched armchair. "What's wrong with you, boy?"

Sarah cleared her throat loudly. Not ladylike in the slightest, but at least it shifted Mrs. Norris' focus off of him. "Oh, is it time for you to go already?" the old woman asked.

Chuck rolled his eyes. It had to have been less than half an hour, but it felt like it had been half a week.

Sarah fought a grin when she caught sight of his expression. "Yes," she said. "The train leaves soon and we really should get moving.

Mrs. Norris made a big fuss at them leaving so suddenly, but eventually subsided after a story from Sarah about a sick aunt in New York that needed someone to look after her. Chuck was delegated to drag Sarah's trunk down from her room and out to the waiting hackney coach.

* * *

They arrived at the station only a few minutes before the train was set to depart, and Sarah insisted on supervising the loading of her trunk into their sleeper car. She tossed a dime to the porter and shut the door in his face. "Alone at last," she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Chuck swallowed nervously. "Yes... um," he said inarticulately.

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "Is something the matter with being alone with me?"

"The... uh," Chuck said. "There's just the one bed."

She smiled. "Hm. Imagine that."

"I'll take the floor," Chuck said.

Sarah rolled her eyes, but shrugged. "We'll talk about it. But first, I want you to look at this newspaper. We need to figure out what triggers these episodes of yours."

"I'd kind of prefer not to have them at all, they make my head ache," Chuck complained.

Sarah sat on the bed and put her chin on her fist. The train lurched into motion slowly picking up speed. Chuck leaned against the windowsill and looked out at the sunset over Boston. "I understand you being nervous," she said. "But the Ring wants you dead because of what they _think_ might be in your head. If we can use what's in your head, maybe we can help take them down. These are the people who killed your father."

Chuck frowned. "No, Roark did that. At least he gave the order. And he's dead. Mission accomplished," his voice took on an odd tone at this pronouncement. He looked a little nauseous.

"He was working for the Ring, Chuck. How else did they know about the machine."

"You..." he stopped and thought about it, then sighed and stretched out his hand. "Give me the paper."

Chuck flipped absently through the paper, without really registering any of the words. He was mostly humoring her, and Sarah scowled and leaned forward to grab his hand. She turned the page absently to a random page. "Look at it. Really look, Chuck. Please?" He sighed again and nodded. He shuddered and his knees wanted to buckle. Chuck stumbled forward and Sarah shot up to her feet to steady him. "What is it? What was it?" She looked down at the page he had read. Obituaries.

"Your boss. Montgomery. Roan Montgomery?"

"Yes, that's him. What did you see?" Sarah said with a sinking feeling.

"He's going to be murdered... I mean. What time is it. Maybe it's not too late."

"It's just eight O'clock," Sarah breathed.

Chuck's eyes winced closed. "Damn it all!" he said and punched the wall. "Damn it! It's too late..."

Sarah stood behind him, wrapped her arms around him comfortingly. "It's okay Chuck. There's nothing you could have done. It's not your fault."

"If I'd looked at this again earlier, we might have been in time. We could have saved him," Chuck said, head hanging and clutching his knuckles. They'd healed from the first time he punched a wall, and it was becoming a bad habit. "What good is it knowing the future if it's too late to make any difference?"

"Shh..." Sarah said. "It's going to be alright."

"I wish I could believe that..." Chuck said. They stood in silence for a while swaying with the motion of the train, the sound of the locomotive a thunderous counterpoint to the enormity of events.

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: Writer's block and Metal Gear for PSP are a deadly combination. Hopefully I'll get moving on this story again soon.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Gunfight on a train! Surprise ending! This one basically wrote itself after _daywalkr82's _review of the last chapter got into my head.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck, even 19th century Chuck.

* * *

Chapter 11:

"This changes everything," Sarah said from the pallet she'd made up on the floor. Chuck had made a nuisance of himself, protesting that _he _should be the one sleeping on the floor until Sarah had finally been forced to literally throw him into the single bed. She was careful to only go half-speed on the move, her repertoire of throws was heavy on bone breaks and Sarah only wanted him prone, not disabled or permanently maimed. "With Roan dead... he was my only contact at Secret Service. Everybody else who was active when I started has either retired, or gotten killed. We don't know what the Ring is planning, but it has to be something big, for them to risk killing the head of the Secret Service."

"Do we know it's the Ring?" Chuck asked. "I mean, we're assuming it, but do we really know?"

Sarah shrugged and frowned. "What else could it have been?"

Chuck blushed. "Ah, well... you mentioned his 'guests' last night. Twins? From what you tell me, he's not a young man any more. Maybe his heart gave out."

She rolled her eyes and snorted. "I suppose it's possible. But if you didn't remember anything more about how he died, we can't really do anything right now. We have to operate under the assumption that is was indeed the Ring who killed him, and that before they killed him, they tried to get all the information they could out of him."

Chuck blinked. "Oh hell. Like the fact that I'm not dead?"

"Yes," she sighed. "But they'll have been able to get someone in to debrief the nurse in the next couple of days anyway, now that Roan isn't in charge. So even if he stood up to torture, they're going to know you're still alive soon." Sarah winced as a darker thought came to her. "It's even possible the new head of the Service could be a Ring operative. The election is coming up soon, and with all the people changing jobs if Cleveland comes back in as President, its a bad time for the Service to be in disarray."

"So you're basically saying that we're up the proverbial shit creek."

"Yes," Sarah said. "Our best bet is to get off the train in Chicago in two days and go to ground. Roan's death should make the papers there as well, and maybe you can remember more about how he died from looking at the actual story. We need to know as close as we can, what the Ring knows. I have a couple of old friends around Chicago who should be able to help."

"New Orleans!" Chuck said. Sarah half-sat up and frowned at his non sequitor.

"What are you on about?"

"The obituary. My obituary. If the Ring knows I'm not really dead, they know about Ellie," Chuck said all in a rush, sitting up and throwing his feet off, getting ready to rise. Sarah winced and leapt up and pressed her palms down on his shoulders. She hadn't thought about that. At the time, mentioning Ellie in the obituary for Chuck had just seemed like the nice thing to do. She tamped down her anger at herself for letting 'nice' threaten Chuck's sister, and took a centering breath.

"We don't know that they'll even put that together," Sarah said. "And besides, there is not a whole hell of a lot we can do about it now."

"Telegram," Chuck said. "We send her a telegram and—"

"And what?" Sarah said. "Just trust to hope that everyone who works at the telegraph office is honest? That no one who gets their hands on it is somehow connected. They're not just in Boston and D.C. The Ring secretly owns about ten percent of industry country-wide. What would you even say in a telegraph? 'Not really dead. Stop. Evil shadow-conspiracy out to kill you. Stop. Have gone crazy as a loon? Stop.' Chuck I understand you're worried about her, but it's the middle of the night. The fastest we can get there is we change trains in Chicago. I guess if they're really in danger we could get off when we stop in Cleveland. But I don't even know if that would be faster. I know Chicago better than Cleveland, and I know for a fact, Chicago will have at least one or two express trains down to the Gulf. It's no sense getting riled up now. You'll just dull your edge. Sleep, Chuck. You need your rest."

Chuck just snorted. "Isn't that what I've been doing all my life? It's like my eyes have been closed my entire life," he said. "This Ring has been working at my country like a worm in the roots of a tree and all this... death and vileness to lay at their feet. Ten percent of the country in their hands and they want more? You expect me to sleep like a little old baby, knowing that?"

Sarah cupped his face in her hands, tilting his eyes up to meet hers. Chuck almost had to sit on his hands to stop from hugging her close to him. "Of course not. I'm just— I guess it's finally hitting you, what we're up against, then, isn't it?" she said calmly. "It's okay to panic. Get it out of the way now, when we can afford it."

"How are you so calm," Chuck said. "You've had longer than I have to process it, but your boss just died, maybe he was murdered. We're cut off from all support and we have no idea what the right next move is. How have you done this for... I don't know how long you've been doing this."

Sarah smiled slowly. "Six years, give or take. And as far as keeping calm? Years of training, various meditation techniques." She shrugged. "And not to put too fine a point on it? I'm not really all that calm in the first place."

"You sure fooled me," Chuck said and slowly gripped her wrists to pull her hands away from his face. His thumb fell across her pulse, and he realized her heart was racing. Or maybe it was his own. Sarah bent forward and Chuck couldn't look away. He thought she was going in for a kiss, but she surprised him, pressed her forehead to his gently. It was a more telling gesture than a kiss would have been, he found himself thinking.

"You make me lose my calm without even trying, Chuck," Sarah whispered, lips tantalizingly close, her eyes filling his vision. "Go back to sleep. It will all seem that much less daunting in the morning."

Chuck nodded and She waited until he was back under his blankets before returning to her pallet on the floor. "Good night Sarah," he said into the moonlit sleeping cabin.

She chewed her lip for a long moment before she answered.

* * *

In the morning, things didn't look much better, in point of fact. Chuck was still worried about his sister, and the usual monotony of a morning ritual became a very different proposition in the confines of their sleeping cabin. Chuck slicked down his unruly hair and ran a comb through it. As he was getting ready to shave, Sarah stopped him. "Don't," she said and snatched the razor out of his hand with a grace that seemed effortless. "You need to stop shaving. I don't have access to a decent disguise kit, and a beard is the next best thing."

Chuck frowned at his reflection in the mirror, the light dusting of stubble, and imagined himself with a beard. He turned his head to see himself in profile. "Are you sure? I've always just gone clean-shaven, although it is a pain keeping the razor sharp."

"I'm sure," She said as she finished brushing out her hair. "I'll probably have to dye my hair too. Wigs are too itchy if I have to keep it up for very long."

The mundane little details of a life on the run were not something Chuck had given much, if any thought to. "Do you have to?"

Sarah peered over his shoulder at his reflection. "Not yet. I don't have anything to dye it with anyway, but ...eventually. Why don't you go down to the dining car while I change?" Chuck nodded and started for the door. "Forgetting something?" Sarah said.

"What?" Chuck turned, his hand already on the latch.

"You don't go anywhere without this," she said and waved the revolver she'd bought him at Macy's the day before. "And where's my gunbelt? You're supposed to be wearing that too."

Chuck sighed. "I'm just a pack mule to you aren't I?"

"No," Sarah said. Then she grinned. "Not _just_..."

Chuck rolled his eyes and strapped on the gunbelt. It was becoming easier with practice and he wasn't quite sure he liked that feeling. He was wearing three pistols now, and though they were heavier, in weight of metal, than his father's Winchester had been, they were unaccountable lighter. It had felt like a lead weight around his neck; the knowledge of what he intended to do pressing in around him. That weight was gone, and Chuck wondered what that said about the state of his soul. He slipped the break-action revolver Sarah had bought him for $13.75 retail into the leather sleeve she had installed in his everyday coat. It bulged out the front slightly, and anyone with a good eye for such things would likely be able to tell he was carrying a weapon. Then again, the chestnut-handled Colt Army revolver at each hip were plain to see. His coat wasn't long enough to hide his armory completely.

As Chuck tried not to stumble down the lurching hallway, he imagined everyone was staring at him. One or two men stepped sharply out of his way, and Chuck frowned, a little puzzled by their reactions. When he made it to the dining car, all the tables were occupied and he frowned harder.

One man alone at a nearby table caught his expression and grew visibly paler. The man scooped his plate and stood, tipped his hat in Chuck's direction and made for the exit like his pants were on fire. Chuck arched a thoroughly confused eyebrow and took the empty seat. It was only a short while before a plate of fried bacon and eggs were placed before him. Chuck cleared his throat. "My fiancee will be joining me," he said and nodded to the seat across from him. The word fiancee tightened his throat slightly; hopefully, Sarah wasn't going to be upset, but she hadn't mentioned any change in their cover.

The serving man knuckled his forehead and nodded vigorously before spinning in place and bolting, quite literally bolting for the door. All of which just left Chuck more confused than ever as he pushed the dry eggs and burnt bacon around his plate.

"What's wrong?" Sarah asked as she slid smoothly into her seat and snatched a strip of bacon off his plate. "You're frowning like a thunderhead."

"Oh, nothing," Chuck said. He tried not to frown so hard, and leaned forward. "Everyone has been looking at me strangely, the man who was sitting at this table, all but ran off with his tail between his legs. If I didn't know better I'd say he was terrified of me."

Sarah snorted fondly and crunched her bacon. Once she was finished with that first bite she frowned at the bacon and set it back on Chuck's plate, smacking her lips distastefully. She took in the overall effect Chuck's ensemble had. Her lips turned up. "I'd say so too."

Chuck furrowed his brow. "Why? I'm not a danger to anyone. You know that."

Sarah laughed softly. "Of course, _I _know that. But you're what, six feet four inches? Near on two hundred pounds? Wearing a triple brace of pistols? The stubble gives you kind of a roguish look about you as well. Unless Wild Bill Hickock rises from the grave you're probably the scariest man this lot will ever see." Her hint of a smile grew into a full blown grin. "We're just lucky they don't have the slightest inkling about me just yet."

Chuck snorted. "That we are."

The serving man came back with another plate for Sarah, which she looked at doubtfully. "There wouldn't by chance be any fresh fruit or the like?" She said in a false voice, a fair impression of a timid, spoiled quasi-aristocrat. Chuck had to blink. For a moment she had sounded a little like Jill.

"No ma'am," the man said. "I'm sorry," he aimed Chuck's way with a sort of wobbly bow. "All we got is canned. Pears and apples."

"That'll do, I suppose," She said with a nod, which the serving man took as a dismissal.

Chuck grabbed his sleeve and for a moment he thought the man was going to faint. "A pot of coffee, when you get a chance. No rush."

The man bobbed another of those weird bows and backed away half a dozen steps before turning. Chuck shook his head in consternation. Sarah grinned conspiratorially. "You really never saw how first impressions might strike people?"

"I'm usually hunched over a broken watch, Sarah. I don't usually get out too much wearing irons."

Her mouth scrunched up sourly. "Better keep that under your hat. Where is your hat, by the by?"

"I don't remember," Chuck said.

"It was rhetorical, Charles," Sarah said. "You left it in the sleeping car. Which is a habit you need to break. A good hat is as necessary as pants in the territories." She leaned forward and poked him in the chest. "So don't forget."

Chuck nodded. "Yes'm." Amazingly, or perhaps maybe not, the coffee and Sarah's bowl of canned pears arrived together. Their server tried to pour, but Sarah waved him off with a flick of her wrist and a roll of her eyes. As she poured coffee for both herself and Chuck, she caught a glimpse of someone in the reflection off the pot. Something nagged at her memory, but she couldn't quite grasp it, so she set the coffee pitcher down and arranged it carefully to give her a splendid view of the woman in question.

Chuck's coffee disappeared quickly, and when he reached for the pot to refill his mug, Sarah slapped his hand. "What is it?" he said, tension suddenly tightening every muscle in his body.

"Hang on..." Sarah squinted into the distorted reflection. She couldn't be sure without a telling glance over her shoulder. "Chuck, relax. Very slowly, look over my right shoulder. I recognize the woman from somewhere, but I can't place her."

"Hm. I don't really..." he said, then stopped. He saw her for a split-second as he had before, in her hat with the beaded fringe. "Actually, yes, I do remember her. She was on the streetcar yesterday as we were coming back from shopping. The hair is different, and she's not wearing a hat, but it's her."

Sarah's instincts screamed danger, and she glanced down at the reflection again. "She's talking to someone now?"

"Yes, an older man. A little bit of gray in his hair. Maybe late forties?" Chuck said. "What's the matter, you think she's following us?"

She risked a glance over her shoulder, took in both of them. The man was doing something with one of his hands. Signaling someone. Her eyes raced around the room, and—hell! Sarah kicked her chair back away from the table planted her feet and launched herself at Chuck. They tumbled to the ground and a shotgun blast smashed apart the coffee pitcher. Their eggs and bacon flew everywhere. Sarah was up to one knee before Chuck could really orient himself to what was happening, her twin Colt Peacemakers in her hands.

The little rat-faced man with the shotgun who had been signalled behind Chuck was staring at them sprawled out on the floor with his eyes bulging in shock. Sarah's right-hand pistol barked and she put a slug through his heart, before she spun and fired her left hand. The second shot wasn't as well aimed, and the older man and the woman from the streetcar both ducked aside behind cover. The dining car was mostly full, and those not involved screamed and hollered and ran for the exits. Sarah hauled back the hammers on her guns and slipped sideways against the flow of people fleeing the scene to change her profile and maybe get a better angle.

Once the car was mostly empty the couple peeked their heads up and Sarah put a bullet through the both of them. She started to stow her guns back into their holsters before she realized Chuck was wearing them, and nearly fumbled her pistols. "Chuck," she called. "Get up and take these." Sarah placed them carefully on a nearby table. Chuck pulled himself up with the help of their breakfast-table, visibly pale when Sarah glanced over at him.

"My god," he breathed. "You killed them."

"So I did," she shot over her shoulder. "What did you expect, me to sing them a lullaby? They tried to kill us, Chuck."

He took a steadying breath and walked over to her, but he tried not to look at the ruin she'd made of their assailants. Sarah was searching their pockets, though for what, Chuck couldn't say.

"Hell," Sarah growled.

"What's wrong?" Chuck said.

"We need to get off the train. Right the hell now," Sarah said in a tone that brooked no argument. She held up a tin badge in the shape of a shield. Pinkerton Detective. Chuck's eyes widened.

"The Pinkerton's are with the Ring?"

Sarah shrugged. "Doubtful. Probably just hired muscle, but either way, we need to move quick." She led the way to the next car. At the sight of them, people started shouting and screaming. Sarah put one of the still-warm guns in Chuck's fist, and held onto one herself. She had to club a man over the head with the butt of her Colt to get him out of the way. Another man, probably another Pinkerton, shot to his feet when they were halfway down the length of the car. Sarah was looking the other way, and Chuck's instincts took over. He grabbed her around the waist and extended his gun-hand past her to squeeze off a round. He missed wide and high, but it put the man's head down long enough for Sarah to finish him off. Chuck's ears were ringing and he stopped to stare at the gore. Sarah grabbed his wrist and tugged him on down the car and past the dead man.

They stopped in the gap between the cars, wind whistling in their ears. "Jump," she said.

"What!" Chuck shouted to be heard over the wind. "I didn't catch that."

"Jump!" she shouted back.

"Are you crazy?" he protested.

Sarah pointed out and down, and Chuck actually looked. They were up on a trestle of some kind, over water. "Now, Chuck!" Sarah shouted and shoved him. He screamed and flailed his arms as he flew through the air. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he lost his grip on the pistol when the water slapped closed around him. In the sudden darkness, he struggled not to panic.

* * *

Bryce awoke in darkness. His whole body ached, so apparently he wasn't quite as dead as he'd expected to be. "Good, you're finally awake again."

"How long was I out, this time?" Bryce said. Memories came back, and he remembered waking up earlier, a shadowy figure looming over him, being fed oatmeal, then sleeping again like the dead man he should have been. "Where am I?"

"Strictly speaking, you aren't anywhere, Mr. Larkin. You're dead, from a legal standpoint, at any rate," the voice said. "So am I, for that matter." A shadowy figure attached to the voice leaned closer out of the shadows, and Bryce realized it was just his eyes. The room was darkened, but there was a little light peeking in between the heavy blackout curtains by the large windows, and at the door. The man leaning over him was older, maybe fifty, maybe even older than that, but not by much. "I apologize for the dramatics, but faking our deaths was the easiest way out of the bind I found myself in."

"I don't understand what's happening, who are you?"

"Roan Montgomery is the name, Mr. Larkin. Head of the Secret Service. Nice work at the Roark mansion by the way," the old man grinned, and Bryce recognized something of himself in the expression. "How would you like a job, Mr. Larkin?"

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: Surprise!

This story now has more reviews than my first story, Chuck and Sarah vs. the Bunker, but 1/3 as many hits. I really don't know what to make of that. My obsession with stats aside, I've got a pretty decent idea now where this story is going, and how it's getting there, so thanks everyone for the ideas. And did anybody think I would really kill off Bryce after I gave him that super cool fight scene at the Tesseract Engine?

Please keep those reviews coming, they are like chocolate covered crack. Not that I know what crack tastes like. Of course I don't.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: I've been watching Deadwood the last few days, and as a direct result, I've been struggling ever since to keep frontier-Sarah from cursing like a sailor. While I think it might be funny to play that off frontier-Chuck's notions of proper behavior, I don't want to drive this story into an M rating just for a one note comedy bit. Maybe that's another one-shot.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck.

Chapter 12:

Bryce was up and on his feet an hour later, though he still had bandages on his hands from the burns he'd taken in his fight with Roark, and the stab wound in his side still ached, and the stitches pulled every step he took. Other than that, he was in a better shape than he had any right to be. His feet were steady as he made his way downstairs. He would have marveled at his luck if not for one other fact. His brother was dead, Roan had explained. Bryce remembered putting Chuck over his shoulder to try and get him out, but apparently, all he'd managed to do was let Chuck take the brunt of the building's collapse and save himself. "Where are we, if you don't mind my asking?" Bryce said as he eased himself into a rickety chair across from Montgomery.

Roan shrugged. "My mother's house."

Bryce arched an eyebrow. "You faked our deaths, and we're hiding at your mother's house?"

Roan shrugged again. "Few enough people even remember I had to have been a child at some point. Even fewer would possibly imagine I could ever have had a mother who wouldn't disown me soon as look at the man I've become."

"I'm not sure I take your meaning," Bryce said slowly.

"You remind me of me at your age Mr. Larkin," Roan said. "At least what I've heard of you."

Bryce frowned sourly. "And what pray tell, do you know of me?"

Roan grinned, showing far too many teeth. "I've made inquiries Mr. Larkin. Oftentimes a man will claim to be a lover rather than a fighter. You it seems, qualify as both. The Secret Service could have use for you in both capacities, as our adversary numbers both men and women in his ranks. This is all I meant."

Bryce snorted softly, and groaned at the pain in his side. He brandished his bandaged palms. "I don't know what use I'd be at either, just at the moment, Mr. Montgomery."

"Give it time, Mr. Larkin," Roan said. "We shall require at least two weeks for the search to die down at any event."

"What search might that be?"

"The one for your boyhood friend," Montgomery said.

"You assured me he was dead," Bryce frowned.

"I am somewhat notorious with our adversary in regards to falsification of death records," he explained. "I myself have died six times in my life. Though this will make lucky number seven."

Bryce turned that over in his head for a moment, keeping any realizations from his face was an easy enough matter, given the pain from his stabbing. "Our adversary, you say."

"Yes. And let that be the subject of our conversation," Roan said. "Though, it will perhaps behoove me inquire as to your skill at cards."

"I'm a fair hand at poker," Bryce said.

Roan grinned. "Good to hear. Then your skillset is all but complete." He turned to the sideboard for a bottle of whiskey and the deck of cards. "I shall endeavor to teach you to cheat, and make you a master. And I will fill you in, with regards to what we face."

* * *

Chuck thrashed in a panic, arms and legs churning the water to froth around him as he clawed for the surface. His boots and the gun in his coat weighed him down, and the impact with the water had muddled his wits. Something grabbed him about the waist and his panic only strengthened, thoughts of sharks or a leviathan, or God knows what rushing through his mind. The shock of the gunfight just moments before surely wasn't helping. One of his flailing arms connected with something, and whatever it was around his waist left.

He took a lungful of water in desperation, and darkness closed in. The next thing he knew, Chuck was puking his guts out. Cool hands pressed against his neck, fingers threaded through his hair. He opened his eyes and coughed water out onto the dirt at the edge of the water. His first breath of air felt like heaven, and he gasped fresh air for nearly a minute before he got his breathing back to something like normal and turned to his savior.

"I think I lost your gun," Chuck said.

Sarah snorted and flicked her soaking wet hair out of her face. "Give me a black eye too," she said and pointed to her face. "Don't let it happen again, or next time I'll let you drown instead of breathing life back into you."

"Oh, hell. I'm sorry, Sarah," Chuck said, and cupped her face. He was careful not to touch the swelling. "I wasn't thinking straight."

She grabbed his wrist and leaned into his touch slightly. "I gather not. You're lucky I'm such a good swimmer once I got out of my dress, or we'd both be food for the fish."

"Out of your..." Chuck trailed off and his eyes flicked down quite against his will, then back up. "Oh dear lord." Then a further realization took him. "Breathed life into me?"

Sarah grinned. "I managed suffer through. For half drowned, you weren't a half bad kisser. Maybe next time you'll even be conscious for it. Now be a gentleman and hand me your coat. I don't think that dress is coming back up any time soon." She exchanged the coat for her pistol, which she had managed to hang onto somehow, despite dragging him out of—he glanced around, unsure what manner of body of water they'd landed in—the lake, he guessed it must be, and getting struck in the face.

As she shrugged into the coat, Sarah patted herself and remembered the gun inside that she'd purchased for Chuck. "Why don't you hang onto that one," Chuck said. "My aim leaves something to be desired."

Sarah considered that. "You only missed his head by inches, Chuck."

"I know. Like I said, something to be desired," Chuck said. "I was aiming for his knee."

She grinned in spite of herself, in spite of everything. Of course he had. Sarah shook her head in wonder, that he could still be so kind-hearted. Though if he was much worse of a shot he would be a deadly terror and a danger to friend and foe alike. She would have to do something about his aim or no one within two counties would be safe from him.

There was a deserted shack near the edge of the water, the whitewash peeled all but gone and the remains of a dead Holstein in a tiny fenced off paddock full of dead grass out back. Sarah went inside to search while Chuck stayed outside keeping watch. When she came back a few minutes later, she had managed to find canteen and a pair of nearly threadbare trousers, though she still wore his coat over her slip.

"Didn't find anything better to cover up with?" he inquired, and Sarah shook her head.

"Just the one spare set of pants. I didn't want to wear a dead man's shirt."

"The body is still inside? No one came to bury him?"

"I don't know as anybody but us has been through," Sarah said. She gestured toward the cow remains. "Buzzards been at that, for a few days. Judging by the stink, I'd say our departed friend has been gone maybe two weeks. When we get to town we ought to mention it to someone, but I'm not much dressed for gravedigging."

"Fair enough," Chuck nodded. "I don't begrudge you the coat, either. You did pick it out, after all. How's your eye?"

Sarah shrugged and prodded at it gently with her finger. "I'll make due. You punch like a watchmaker's daughter, not his son."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "You've never been at odds with Ellie Faye, or you wouldn't say that. When I was sixteen she knocked all a man's teeth down his throat for trying to get a glimpse up her skirt. One punch." Chuck paused to let that sink in, and took in the shabby building and the flies buzzing around the cow carcass. "I hope we aren't settling here? For that matter, do you have any idea where 'here' is?

Sarah reached into the inside pocket of Chuck's coat and pulled out a rolled up paper. "Also got a map. Welcome to Ohio. By this, unless I miss my guess, that's Lake George we landed in," She said pointing. Sarah turned and pointed in the other direction. "The township of Harpersfield lies only a few miles west. If the weather holds we should be able to make it there for the midday meal with time to spare."

Thunder rumbled overhead and drips of rain began to patter on the lake. Chuck rolled his eyes. "Your timing is impeccable as always, Miss Walker. Should we take refuge in the house to keep dry?"

"There's more leaks than roof in that place. I don't doubt a good rain will bring the damn thing down on our heads." And there was the dead body she'd mentioned earlier. Though she refrained from saying so, Chuck got the impression it was for his sake on that front that she didn't wish to stay put and weather the storm inside.

Sarah set a harsh pace to the west, trying to keep them ahead of the storm clouds. After half a mile, they found a stand of trees and Chuck paused briefly. His boots were squelching with every step, and he stomped to get his wet stockings situated properly. Sarah watched the procedure with obvious amusement. "Are you going to be alright?"

"These new boots you bought me," Chuck explained. "My feet are going to be two giant blisters at this rate if we have to walk another three miles."

Sarah went on tiptoes and peered through the trees back the way they'd come, the township wasn't yet visible in the other direction. "Closer on to four, it looks like."

Chuck sighed. "Two giant blisters, that's my future. And I didn't even need to have a fit to know it."

Sarah shrugged. "You need to sit a spell, take your boots off entirely? There's enough deadfall and low branches so I can cut some to make a lean-to. Should keep most of the wet at bay."

"I might not be able to get them back on, if I take them off," Chuck said. "The leather could shrink."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "I doubt your feet have swole up so much already that that could be the case. Find a dry patch by one of the trees and sit. I'll holler if I need a hand."

Chuck frowned and leaned against the trunk of what he thought was the biggest oak tree he'd ever seen, with some kind of vine growing up the side. He bent and tugged off his boots, and then after a moment's thought his stockings as well, before peeling a hunk of moss off the tree for kindling. He wasn't much for starting fires without matches himself, but maybe Sarah would show another unexpected talent. When Sarah came back a few minutes later, arms full of leafy canopy, her eyes widened and she hurried over the last little way.

"You damn fool, move aside! That's poison ivy."

"What?" Chuck dropped the bit of moss and hopped away from the tree. "Are you sure? I'm not itching at all."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Yes I'm sure! You didn't touch any of it did you?"

"I may have brushed my back against it, but I don't think..." He winced. "I did brush some away when I first leaned against the tree. Shouldn't I be itching?"

"You haven't touched your face or your eyes since then, have you?" Sarah said. "It takes a while before it kicks in."

"I don't know, it's not something I take much note of," Chuck said, on the edge of panic.

"Better go jump in the lake then, but keep your distance from me," Sarah said. "I don't want any part of your troubles. Take your stockings too, and scrub them and yourself good before you think of sitting in my lean-to." She frowned in thought. You don't have a flask on you by chance, so you can rub your hands with it?"

"What, whiskey? I don't drink."

"Of course you don't," Sarah rolled her eyes. Couldn't he have just one bad habit when it was useful to her? Rubbing alcohol would have been better, but here they were stranded alone in a forest. Luckily enough it was a warm day, though the rain made it mild, or he might take a chill after another dunking. "Make for the lake, and stay in for maybe half an hour to make sure you soak the ivy-oil out of your clothes. Get a move on."

"But my boots," Chuck started to protest.

Sarah rolled her eyes and pointed in the direction of the lake. "Run, now or a stubbed toe will be the least of your worries!"

Chuck stripped his shirt off as he ran, and Sarah watched his receding back until he was halfway down to the lakeshore before she could tear her eyes away from the muscles in his back. She shook herself, doffed Chuck's coat and the borrowed trousers from the house so her underthings would dry faster, then pulled her boot knife again to cut the notches in the heaviest bough to serve as stops for the cross-hatching branches. It was dull work, and relatively mindless, since she knew well what she was doing. Otherwise, a careless moment might ruin an hour's work, but Sarah's hands worked with a surety and a steadiness found in only the most seasoned of woodspeople. She had a goodly supply of materials and after what she judged to be half an hour, she was mostly finished. She had to judge it by the sun through the trees, and the cloudcover, since her new pocketwatch had gone missing in the fall into the lake. Underneath the makeshift shelter was already noticeably dryer than the surrounding area, so Sarah got dressed and started off for the lake again. She hiked Chuck's coat up and over her head when she came out of the little stand of trees, as it was still raining and getting worse.

"Come on, Chuck!" She shouted out to him, as she approached the shore. Then she scanned around. He was nowhere to be seen. "Chuck!" Sarah bellowed, worry sending her reaching for the gun in her borrowed coat.

He poked his head up in a splash and peered in her direction. "It been half an hour yet?"

"I don't know? You itching yet?"

"No," he said.

"Then I guess you're out of the woods, so to speak," Sarah said, still with her voice raised to reach him. "Come on back, and I'll try and get a fire going so you can dry off." Sarah turned back without saying another word, still shielding her hair, which was only just damp now, with his coat so she wouldn't be tempted to watch him getting dressed.

Chuck was only a few minutes behind her, and Sarah was only barely finished piling the kindling over a new handful of moss. The batch Chuck had harvested previously was possibly impregnated with the urushiol from the Poison Ivy, and she didn't want to risk inhaling smoke laced with the stuff. She'd heard tales growing up about a man who'd nearly died when his lungs had developed a Poison Ivy rash on the inside, and there was no way she would risk that happening to Chuck or herself.

He squatted down and duck-walked under the lean-to next to her. "How did you figure on lighting this thing?" He asked, genuinely curious. "Flint and steel, or maybe a firebow?"

"Those will both take longer than we can afford. I want to make sure you get dry before you catch your death."

"It isn't quite that cold, Sarah."

She nudged him with her shoulder. "Is that your way of saying you would be averse to huddling up to me next to the fire for warmth then, Mr. Bartowski?"

Chuck went purple and Sarah laughed and pulled the gun from inside her borrowed coat. His eyes went to the size of teacups and she rolled her eyes and snapped the locking flange aside and broke open the action, pulled out one of the brass cartridges and tossed it to him. Chuck coughed into his fist and held up the cartridge. "What am I to do with this?"

"See if you can't worry the bullet loose with your teeth," she explained. "While I retrieve a needle from my boot. Careful you don't jostle and send the powder everywhere, would you?"

Chuck arched an eyebrow at that, and did as he was bid. Once he finally got the bullet out of the cartridge, Sarah tipped the forty grains of black powder out onto the waiting bundle of kindling. She used the needle to poke the primer out of its place in the base of the empty cartridge and rolled it on her palm for a moment's inspection, before situating it carefully on the pile of gunpowder.

As she set the tip of the needle next to the primer in preparation, Chuck cleared his throat into his hand so the wind wouldn't disturb the powder. "Couldn't we just fire the gun so the powder caught on the muzzle flare?"

Sarah frowned. "We could. If we wanted the blast of hot air to send burning kindling every which damn way," she said. "I don't tell you how to fix watches and the like, do I?"

Chuck held up his hands and shrugged in defeat, while Sarah bent back to her work. She put the needle up to the primer, drew her bootknife, a short three inch or so affair, with a handle made from a deer's horn or the like, Chuck didn't know animals well enough to be sure of the kind exactly. Sarah flipped the blade into her palm and tapped the eye-end of the needle sharply with the pommel of the knife handle. Sparks shot up and the primer ignited with a low pop. The powder flared orange and smoke billowed up, blinding Chuck briefly. He couldn't tell if the flame had taken the kindling until after he caught the look of smug satisfaction on her face.

If not for the bruise welling up where he'd accidentally struck her in his fit of fright in the lake, she was the very picture of beauty. "I'm sorry."

Sarah frowned and worked the fire without looking up at him, moving the kindling into the burgeoning flame with a twig until the end took flame and she could use that as a taper to light other bits. "What for?" Sarah said absently, and started feeding larger twigs into the fire.

"Your eye," Chuck said softly. "I want you to know, I really... I never would have struck you if I'd known it was you."

Sarah grinned and rolled her eyes, finally looking up at him. "I know that. Chuck, do you know why jumping in to save someone from drowning is probably the most heroic thing a person can do? Because nine times out of ten, you get socked in the face for your troubles. And one time in three, they pull you down with them. I knew what I was getting into." The grin grew. "Besides," she said and poked him in the back of the neck.

"Ow!" Chuck said and clapped a hand to a bruise he hadn't noticed somehow.

"I had to render you unconscious you were thrashing so much," Sarah explained. At his astonished expression she shrugged and went on. "It's a rather basic pressure point strike, if you know what you're doing." His astonishment only seemed to grow. "What?"

"You never cease to surprise me," Chuck said. "Rather basic is it, under water, in the dark, struggling with a larger opponent in a drowning frenzy, to hit a 'pressure point' did you call it?" Chuck shook his head. "You really must teach me to defend myself properly at some point."

"Didn't your father teach you to throw a punch?" Sarah said and immediately regretted it._ Idiot._ She berated herself mentally. Now he looked so sad and miserable and handsome. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned..."

"It's alright," Chuck said before she could get any farther. "This was supposed to be my apology, not yours. And it was Bryce who taught me to fight. Father never went in for fisticuffs, after the war. I heard from one of his friends that he beat a man near to death in a barfight, and never raised a hand again to any man." Chuck smiled sadly. "I can't help but think that's part of why he died."

Sarah stared into the fire as she tended it, all the while he spoke. She didn't trust herself to look at him as he spoke of his father. When he fell silent she darted a glance out of the corner of her eye. She waited until he wiped his eyes before she spoke up, but she kept her eyes on the work. "And you still aimed for that Pinkerton's knee on the train?"

She could just make out his shrug from the corner of her eye. "He was just doing his job..." Chuck said, but it rang hollow, probably even to his own ears.

Sarah nodded though, and leaned back to sit next to him, finally satisfied the fire would take. She scooted over close until he put an arm around her shoulder and she could lean her head against his shoulder. "Fair enough, Chuck," she whispered and they sat and listened to the drumming of the rain for a spell.

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: What's this? No gunfights? No Ring operatives making life difficult? Dogs and cats living together!

Anyway, thanks for all the reviews. It does my heart proud, and also makes it more difficult to tear myself away and finish my thesis. So... kind of a double edged sword.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Language warning, but just the one instance that wouldn't fly on network TV. It might seem out of place, but it felt less than honest to soften the language of random drunken idiot #2.

Disclaimer: Despite my wish upon a star, I don't own 19th Century Chuck or any associated character etcetera...

* * *

Chapter 13:

It was early afternoon when the rain stopped, and Chuck and Sarah could continue their trek toward Harpersfield. The grass was baked brown and dry from the summer heat in a few places, despite the recent downpour, and the sun came out almost immediately in an attempt to evaporate any standing water that hadn't been soaked up by the hard soil. Chuck squinted and put a hand up against the glare, while Sarah seemed mostly unfazed. "See why you need a hat, Chuck?" He grumbled something, and Sarah took it as agreement. "Hopefully there's a general store in this township."

Chuck frowned. "Why wouldn't there be?"

Sarah glanced at him and paused as they crested a hill. There was a little stand of trees at the top, and Sarah looked that way, scanning idly to be sure it wasn't hiding enemies. "Chuck, have you ever been outside of Boston?"

"Several times," Chuck said. "Bryce and I took a train to New York, and I spent a few years at Cambridge when I was attending University."

She winced. "But, you've lived in a city your whole life, you've never," Sarah sighed. "Chuck I don't expect there are more than two dozen families living in this Harpersfield Township."

"Oh," Chuck said. "So, there mightn't be enough people to warrant even a small store?"

"Exactly, they might simply be a stop on some other larger town-merchant's supply route," Sarah explained. "If that's the case, we might have to—"

"Alright mister, step away from the lady," A voice suddenly said from the treeline. The man it belonged to was very young, little more than a boy, and his voice almost cracked as he spoke. He had a double barreled shotgun pointed at them. "You alright miss?"

"Of course she's alright," Chuck said. "What—"

"I don't hold with men as take a hand to a lady, mister," The boy said. "So why don't you keep your hands where I can see them?"

"What is going on?" Chuck said, beyond confused. "Are you trying to rob us? I should warn you, she's a very steady hand with a pistol."

"Rob you?" The boy said. "Of course I ain't! Just doin' my chivalric duty when I see a lady in extremity."

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "What extremity might that be?"

The shotgun wavered. "Well, uh... you got that shiner and all, and... well, you ain't got no dress," the boy grunted thoughtfully. "You ain't gonna tell me he ain't the one blacked your eye?"

Sarah grinned in Chuck's direction. "He's got you there," she said.

Chuck glared at her. "This is how you help?"

She laughed in his face. The boy was a picture of confusion. "Miss? You sure you're alright? That knock to the head hadn't addled your brains, did it?" This made Sarah laugh harder, but eventually she got it under control enough to respond.

"I'm quite alright," she said and pointed at her black eye. "My fiance fell in the lake, and nearly drowned. I went in after to save him, and in his panic, he gave me this for my trouble. Also cost me my dress. Right down to the bottom it went." A grim realization hit her. "And my half of the money with it." Sarah patted at the pockets of Chuck's coat, where she'd stuffed his half, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she felt the bulge of the folded paper.

"Don't he know how to swim?" the boy wanted to know, then he frowned and peered at Chuck more closely. "And where's his hat?"

Sarah grinned smugly and arched an eyebrow. "I asked him that same question myself. He's more accustomed to city living than I."

The boy's inspection of Chuck seemed to come to a quick conclusion there. "Oh. A real tenderfoot then?"

Chuck scowled. "I'm a watchmaker," he explained. Sarah shot him a glare—nice job remaining incognito—but he just shrugged uncomfortably.

"Issat right?" the boy said thoughtfully. "Where's your tools?"

"Bottom of the lake," Chuck said. "I had hoped I might find replacements in town."

"You can try the store, but they been having trouble keepin' stocked," the boy said as he walked up close to them. "What with the drought and all."

"We just had to take shelter from a downpour," Sarah said. "What drought?"

"Well, it done broke," the boy said, as if this was perfectly obvious. "Ain't you seen the dead grass and all? I was comin' out to check on Mr. Tolliver; we ain't heard from him in three weeks, out by the lake like he is. I'd of thought he'd fix you two up with fresh clothes at least."

"He's dead," Chuck said, thoughtlessly, and the shotgun was back up in his face a moment later. Sarah moved like a viper, and in a blink, the shotgun was gone, and the boy was on his stomach with his arm pinned behind his back.

"He was like that when we found him," she said, more calm than she appeared. "And he had been for at least a couple weeks. If I let you up, you going to try pointing a gun at my man again?"

"No, ma'am I ain't," he said, shivering. "God's honest truth I ain't."

"Good," Sarah said. "Then I think we understand each other." She let go of the boy, but held onto the shotgun.

"We should apologize, for the rough treatment," Chuck said, and arched an eyebrow at Sarah. She merely rolled her eyes and snapped open the shotgun to check what it was loaded with. "And for not making introductions sooner."

The boy got slowly to his feet, dusting himself off and working his shoulder experimentally. He grinned and shook his head. "I guess I see why you was laughing earlier, Miss. I expect, aside from bein' engaged to him, he ain't got much of a chance agin you anyway?"

Sarah nodded and pulled the pistol halfway out of her coat pocket so he could see it. "You expect correctly."

"I'm Abner," the boy said and stuck out his hand. Sarah just looked at it, and then at Chuck, who took the hint and shook Abner's hand. "Abner Mills," he added.

"I'm Chuck—"

"Smith," Sarah put in before he could give them away any further. "I'm Sarah Eubanks."

Abner insisted they let him see Mr. Tolliver's body before he let them anywhere near his farm, and so they had to walk another half hour out of their way back to the lake. Once Abner was satisfied that Chuck and Sarah weren't murderers, the three of them walked another couple miles to the Mills' farm, and Sarah returned Abner's shotgun.

* * *

Chuck looked around, as they approached, but there was no sign of a mill. It had only been a thought, but he was a little disappointed. Sarah frowned at him and he shrugged. The farmhouse was a large sprawling building, two stories, with the patchwork look of a house that had been added onto every time the family had grown too big. There were a number of outbuildings as well, and the whole place had a lived in feeling that was welcome after the bleakness of Mr. Tolliver's ruined lakeside shack.

By the time they reached the Mills' farm, it was nearly time for supper, and Chuck's stomach was growling because they had missed lunch. Abner made introductions to his mother and sisters—his father had passed a few years ago— and he was now 'man of the house,' at fifteen.

Mrs. Mills was older, close on to fifty, and her daughters were all closer to Chuck and Sarah's age, or a little younger. There were four of them, all short and brunette, and giggling together every time Chuck walked by. Sarah glared at them, and wished she'd thought ahead to procuring an engagement ring before they left Boston.

When Sarah came back from changing into a borrowed change Abner's clothes—all of the dresses on hand would have been too short by quite a stretch and shown more leg than was proper— everyone was just getting ready for supper. A pair of Abner's sisters was bringing in platters of food.

"So I hear you're a watchmaker, Mr Smith?" the matron Mills said as they finally sat down. Sarah had almost had to get physical with one of the younger miss Mills to get a seat next to Chuck. It was scandalous. Or, it would have been, if they'd actually been engaged. Sarah growled and Chuck glanced at her, concerned.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Chuck said.

"I hate to impose," Mrs. Mills said. "But would you mind taking a look at the grandfather clock? It hasn't run in years. My grandfather brought it from out East when we settled here back around the turn of the century."

"I'll sure take a look at it, but I can't make any promises," Chuck said. "I don't have my tools with me, so I'm not sure exactly what good I'll do. And may I say Mrs. Mills, this cornbread is delicious."

"Oh, look at you, you flatterer," Mrs. Mills said. "But your compliment is misplaced. It's my eldest, Louisa, did the cooking tonight."

One of the Mills girls who had been jockeying for a seat next to Chuck ducked her head and fluttered her eyelashes at Chuck. "My friends call me Lou."

Sarah's knuckles cracked and tendons stood out on the back of her hand. For a moment she was worried she would bend her fork right in half. Chuck grinned, took Lou's hand and kissed the back. "My friends call me Chuck." Sarah poked him in the side with her elbow and glared at him for a moment.

"Oh, what—Sarah?" He blinked, obviously remembering only now that he was supposed to be engaged to her, and not on the market for one of the Mills girls to scoop up. "You two haven't officially been introduced, I guess? Miss Eubanks is... is my—"

Sarah put an arm around Chuck possessively. "Fiance," she said with a pointed look in Lou's direction. "I don't know if Abner mentioned that while I was changing?"

Lou blushed. "No," she glared at her brother. "He hadn't. And I noticed you weren't wearing a ring, so you'll forgive me if I overstepped?"

Sarah frowned and thought it over, before she nodded at last.

* * *

After supper, Chuck took a look at the busted grandfather clock. It took nearly half an hour before Chuck claimed victory. "I think I see the problem," he said, contorted into a bizarre position so he could stick his head into the innards of the device. "Abner, could you move the lantern just a touch, I'm getting shadows and—stop there, that's perfect."

"Can you fix it?"

Chuck's shrug looked like it should wrench his back, but he didn't complain. "I think so, if you have such a thing as a pair of pliers?"

"I'd have to go check the shed," Abner said.

"Nevermind, I think..." there was a metallic snap and Chuck pulled himself out of the cabinet. "One of the gears has cracked," he said, holding up the offending part. "And we'll need to send off for a replacement. I can help you write the letter to a supply house I know back east, if you don't mind escorting us into town tomorrow?"

"That'd be just fine Mr. Smith. I got to take what little harvest we got in, down to the store," Abner said. "I know my mother has set up a room for Mrs. Eubanks, and I'll set up a pallet for you in the barn—"

"I think not," Sarah said. Abner and Chuck both flinched and turned to look at her in surprise. Even in her borrowed white shirt, she had somehow managed to blend into the background as she watched them work, never moving or making a sound. It was just a little eerie, and Chuck remembered that she'd done something similar back in the hospital.

Chuck swallowed. "Uh, what do you mean, Sarah?"

She arched an eyebrow that as good as said right out, _I'm not letting you out of my sight_, but instead she said aloud. "We share a room, Mister Mills."

Abner's eyes widened. "Oh. Uh... okay. I'm not sure what mother will make of that. Huh... I should probably— that is, if you'd excuse me?"

Once Chuck was sure Abner was out of earshot, he turned to Sarah. "What's that about?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "What do you think it was about, Chuck? I let you sleep out in the barn who knows who might creep in. Or do you want that? I saw the way you were looking at that Lou girl."

"That's not— I wasn't—" Chuck floundered around for words.

"Do you think she's prettier than me?" Sarah said.

Chuck's floundering continued. He sputtered a few incoherent syllables before he stopped and took a breath. "Of course not," he finally said in a hoarse whisper. "I just... okay, I get why I shouldn't sleep in the barn. I guess your orders were pretty explicit, about keeping me safe."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Is that what you think? Chuck, you're not a job to me," she held up a hand to forestall him. "I mean, yes, alright, technically you are, but you're not _just _that." She arched an eyebrow, hoping he'd take the hint so she wouldn't have to say it straight out.

Chuck blushed. "Uh... ha... oh, I didn't... um."

"You're babbling," Sarah said. "Again." So at least he wasn't completely clueless.

"Sorry," he said and swallowed nervously. "I don't know that we should share a room if it's going to upset Mrs. M—"

"Good news!" Abner said excitedly as he came bounding back into the room. "Mother says she still has the tarrying bedclothes up in the attic."

Chuck and Sarah blinked at him in similar states of consternation. "The what?" they said almost as one.

* * *

Sarah frowned grumpily once Mrs. Mills was finished with her needlework and out of the room. She did not appreciate it being sewn in a sack. Whether it was in an attempt to protect her virtue or not, it was still a ridiculous practice. She let out a heavy sigh.

"Are you going to be alright?" Chuck asked. "I can cut you out of there if you want, Sarah. I mean, it's my turn to sleep on the floor, and it's no sense—"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Oh do be quiet. I can cut myself free if it comes to that," she said, and squirmed a little. "This whole thing just strikes me as silly. Like this would ever stop anyone if they were determined to sin. I mean, really. It's actually a little quaint, that they wouldn't think to cover up the girl entire—" Sarah stopped, her teeth clicking together. She hadn't thought out the rest of that sentence very well before she started speaking, and Chuck was blushing crimson again. Why did he have to do that all the time? Didn't he know how that set her off? Sarah frowned darkly. He probably did. She wouldn't put it past him and his Boston education, pretending to act all proper when he knew it just made her want to tear her way out of the tarrying clothes and— Sarah shook her head. _You stop that_ _right now,_ she barked silently to her libido. _You're not the boss of me._

Chuck didn't change out of his clothes, merely slipping under the covers after removing his boots, and this despite the fact that she was swaddled practically head to toe in order to prevent anything untoward.

Despite the studied propriety of their situation, Chuck found himself lying stock still on his back, a good two feet distant from her all the night through. It was the most nerve wracking night of his life. He guessed he'd had maybe half an hour of sleep in all when Mrs. Mills came in to cut Sarah out.

Chuck grabbed his boots and his coat and darted out of the room without a word to her, which Sarah took as a good sign. An embarrassed Chuck was, in all likelihood, a Chuck having impure thoughts about a certain Secret Service Agent of his acquaintance. She only wished she could get him to let slip exactly how impure, but that was a worry for later. Before she could even get dressed, Mrs. Mills, Lou and one of the younger girls came in with dresses and petticoats, pincushions and needle and thread and swatches of cloth at the ready to modify one of the tallest girls' dresses for her.

Sarah sighed and girded herself for battle. Figuratively. Twenty men with rifles wouldn't get her anywhere near a girdle or a corset. "Please, don't bother on my account," Sarah said. "I'll just buy new when we get to town."

"Oh, you were to go with them?" Lou said. "Jane, run help Abner get the wagon-team harnessed."

"No, that's alright, I'm perfectly able to walk," Sarah protested, but the younger girl was already out the door. "It's only a couple of miles."

"Three," Lou said. "To be exact. Now come try on this dress, I insist."

Sarah glanced around for her gunbelt. Hopefully Chuck had forgotten it as he was wont. She wasn't exactly opposed to dresses as a concept, but when she already had a perfectly serviceable shirt and trousers on hand, Sarah just didn't see the point of making her hosts do needlework. "I will not," she said, and Lou and Mrs. Mills looked at her like she was addled.

"Why ever not? Surely you don't want to go around in men's clothes if you don't have to?" Lou said, frowning. Mrs. Mills on the other hand, found her eyebrows going up in realization, and she hushed her daughter. When Lou caught on, she looked scandalized as well.

"But you're engaged to Mr. Smith. Surely he wouldn't put up with such deviant behavior?"

"Why are you looking at me like that? What's deviant about it?" Sarah frowned. "Have you ever tried to fight in a dress? Oh, you can do it, sure. But what if you need to kick someone in the pills?"

Lou was flabbergasted. Mrs. Mills wasn't too much better off, but she managed to get herself back under rein faster. "And do you find yourself succumbing to such temptation often, the... pill kicking?"

Sarah shrugged. "Not at all," she said. "But I'd rather have the option, should the need arise, than not, if you take my meaning?"

Lou laughed and broke into a grin in spite of herself. "I suppose I can see the utility of men's dress in that regard," she said. Mrs. Mills blinked and glared sharpish at her daughter. Lou cleared her throat primly, and went on in somewhat of a hurry. "But still, it isn't proper."

Sarah went over to where she'd laid out the borrowed clothes from the night before. Her nightdress fell just to her knees, as it had been made for a much shorter woman. "Again," she said, hefting her gunbelt pointedly before setting it down on the chair. "I'd better be improper and alive, than proper and throat-cut in a ditch somewhere. And nobody, not even Mr. Smith, tells me how to dress. If you'd excuse me?" Sarah said, and turned to pull the nightdress off over her head.

She stepped into her trousers and Lou or her mother gasped. Sarah turned and frowned, pulling on an undershirt. "What is it now?"

"Was that a tattoo?" Mrs. Mills said, shocked.

Sarah shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about. Unless you mean the scar?" Sarah pulled her undershirt up to show the white line running across her ribcage.

"I mean no offense, but what can have done that?" Mrs. Mills said.

"Hmm?" Sarah said, absently running a finger along the old wound. "Oh, just a sword fight a few years back, on top of a burning building in New York City if I recall correct."

Lou laughed nervously, "Oh, you do go on. What really happened?"

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "You should see the other guy. Well, not so much, actually. He died messy. But then, he's probably just bones left over now, after the worms have had him for so long." Mrs. Mills was glaring at her now, and Lou had taken on a bit of a greenish tinge. "Uh, just funnin' Lou," the younger Miss Mills nodded and slipped out.

Sarah shrugged. "Sorry, ma'am. I forget how squeamish some proper young ladies can be."

Mrs. Mills frowned at her, studying her as if just seeing her for the first time. "That's quite alright. I wonder, if you don't mind me prying? You and Mr. Smith won't be gracing us with your presence over-long I hope?"

"It's not the current plan, no," Sarah said. "If we do stay in these parts, we'll find accommodations in town."

Mrs. Mills nodded. "That would be my preference on the matter. I'll leave you to get dressed, though the word seems not to apply to you as it does to others."

Sarah knuckled her forehead mockingly. "Aye aye, ma'am." Mrs. Mills shut the door a tad harder than necessary, and Sarah pursed her lips in thought. She maybe shouldn't have been quite that bold about it, but Sarah had almost been able to see Mrs. Mills' horror at the idea of Sarah's brand of practicality spreading to her daughters, and it had irked her. That and Chuck fleeing her presence so quickly had put her in a fine prickly mood.

Maybe an oblique apology before they left for town was in order, but Sarah doubted Mrs. Mills had the temperament to hear it, so she stomped her feet to settle them in her boots, tucked in her shirt and strapped on her gunbelt. Its weight around her waist felt good, reassuring, familiar, but she frowned down at the empty holster on her right hip. She was just as good left handed, but Sarah drew down and spun the weapon a few times by the trigger-guard before flipping the gun over to her right and re-holstering it on that side. Probably better not to stand out as left-handed as well as dressing in mens' clothes.

Thankfully, the gun-spinning and juggling went according to plan. At least her dexterity hadn't atrophied along with her sufferance of people who thought they knew better than her what she should wear. She'd had to build that up painfully over years of working at Secret Service, and now it seemed to have flown right out the window.

Strictly speaking, Mrs. Mills wasn't wrong. Sarah _should _have let them alter a dress for her, if just to allow her to blend in easier, but she didn't truly feel like herself when dressed and painted up like that, and apart from the brief time after he'd woken from his two-week coma, Chuck had only ever seen her in dresses. She wanted him to get accustomed to her as she preferred to be. Sarah rolled her eyes. Thoughts of Chuck again, and not in any professional capacity. She almost went to check her watch before remembering it was likely back on the train or lost to the lake, so strong was the urge to know how long had that been before she'd let herself think on the puzzle that was Charles Bartowski?

Abner and Chuck were sitting on the jockey box, behind the team of horses, by the time Sarah got downstairs and out to meet them. She arched an eyebrow at Chuck and he frowned back at her for a moment until she stuck her thumbs through her belt and idly tapped her pinky finger on the leather holster holding her pistol. A light went on, and Chuck muttered something to Abner before shuffling himself into the wagon bed with the cargo. Sacks of corn and wheat for the market, but plenty of room for Chuck as well.

Abner glanced at her as Sarah hauled herself up into the shotgun seat. "Are you sure you don't want to ride in the back?" he asked sheepishly.

"I'm sure," she said tightly. "Give me that shotgun and wave to your momma."

Abner grunted. "She sure looks sore about _something," _he said and looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "Don't know what that could be though, Miss Eubanks."

"Well, neither do I," Sarah remarked and leaned the shotgun out of the way. "And may I congratulate you on your picking up the idea I didn't want to talk about it." It was pretty unlikely they would be set upon during the half-hour ride into town, so she leaned back and shaded her eyes and they proceeded in silence but for the clomp of the horses' hooves and the occasional jingle of harness or rattling of the tires. Her lack of concern was justified, and they jostled and bumped along uneventfully into Harpersfield. It was a decent sized town, larger in fact than Sarah had imagined, with at least two more streets than she would have supposed were needed. A total of three, large enough to deserve the name and maybe a dozen others that qualified as alleys.

Chuck and Abner went off to the post to send off for the new gear for the grandfather clock, and Sarah stayed with the horses and the wagon. They had only been gone minutes when trouble started.

* * *

"Who does we have here, then?" a grubby drunkard slurred, peering up at Sarah sideways. He wasn't alone, and the look in his friend's eye wasn't the usual harmless drunk. Sarah really wished she still had a watch so she could know just how bad off the two were, though it was well short of noon, so obviously it was close to as bad as it got.

"Just passing through," Sarah said neutrally. She checked the shotgun leaning against her leg, and just to be safe, let one hand fall to loop through the trigger guard.

The second man leered up at her, "Why don't ya come down and have a drink with me?"

Sarah scowled at them. "It's a little early for me. Try back around sundown."

The drunk with the dangerous eyes lurched close to the side of the wagon, and his hands went for Sarah's trouser leg. "Why should I, ya dozy cunt—" anything else the drunk might have had to say was lost when the toe of Sarah's boot took him in the jaw just behind the ear. He spun awkwardly and slumped like a sack of potatoes into the churned up muck of the thoroughfare. Sarah flicked her wrist and the shotgun spun from its perch around and up into her shoulder, aimed dead at the first drunk's chest.

"I've got two barrels here," she said, low and menacingly. "One for each of you. Now pick up your friend and get!" As the two drunks retreated Sarah kept the shotgun lined up with them.

"Everything alright?" Chuck said as he and Abner returned.

Sarah snorted. "Couple of drunks," she said with a shrug and stowed the shotgun again. "Nothing I couldn't handle. You get the part ordered?"

"Yes we did, Miss Eubanks," Abner said. "And Mr. Smith explained to me how to put the new one in when it come, in case you done moved on before then."

"Good," Sarah said and held out her hand to Chuck. "Help me down?"

He took her hand to steady her, though he frowned. "You could have just jumped, couldn't you?" Chuck whispered. "You usually-"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Of course, but I'm trying to put out 'taken' signals. Is that okay by you?"

Chuck blushed, and didn't have much to say to that.

Abner hitched his trousers up with his thumbs importantly. "You two have more business in town? I'm going over to Tuckers' with the load if you want to tag along?"

Sarah shook her head, at the boy's antics. "We need to get restocked on supplies, if you've got a place that sells such a thing as a firearm in this town?"

Abner stood on the jockey-box and threw up his hands in exasperation, "Well, didn't I just say I had to go to Big Mike Tuckers' dry goods store? He'll have anything you could ever need. Come on, get back up and let's go."

Sarah shook her head. "I don't think so, Abner. I think my teeth might rattle right on out if I do. My own two feet are good enough. We'll be over directly."

Abner shrugged and snapped the reins gently, and the wagon lurched back into motion. Once he was out of sight, Sarah sighed in relief.

"You alright?" Chuck asked.

"I'll be okay," Sarah said. "But it wasn't really my teeth I was worried about. I just didn't want to hurt Abner's feelings. You could have told me there wasn't any cushion on that damn seat." A thought occurred to her, as far as payback for that oversight, not to mention the lengths he'd gone to in avoiding a conversation with her after they'd woken up. Sarah grinned wickedly at Chuck and turned side-on to him. "Would you cop a look, make sure my butt's still attached and in its proper shape?"

Chuck went the color of beets, and Sarah's grin widened.

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: No, that wasn't an uncredited Jeffster cameo. They're _creepy_ drunks, not menacing drunks. Though the distinction is slight, it is an important one to me. Jeffster are sly enough not to get thrown out of the saloon before noon, in case anyone is curious, so that's where they are. And yes, Jeffster the band exists in the 1890s, so look forward to that in the next couple chapters.

Thanks to everybody who continues to read and review this story, your kind words are appreciated. I don't remember who it was who suggested Big Mike owning a dry goods store, or if it was more than one, so speak up if you want official credit.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Okay... off topic movie recommendation time. I just watched this movie again, and it's still amazing six years later. Bubba-hotep! I know this seems a little out of left field. But Bruce Campbell stars, who also played Brisco County Jr, one of the main inspirations for this story, so... that's how my brain works. Also he's Sam Axe on Burn Notice, so there's kind of a spy connection as well... whatever. It's a great movie and I stand by the recommendation.

* * *

Chapter 14:

"Damn it!" Roan said as he slapped the newspaper down on the table. Bryce jumped a little, and pushed the deck of cards aside. He was a fast study, and seven times out of ten, he was dealing seconds that Roan, who was in his own estimation the best living card-cheat in America, couldn't follow. It was frankly astounding. Larkin was a gold mine of a find, especially given his proximity to the whole Bartowski/Roark disaster.

"I assume you're talking about something in here?" Bryce said. He put a fingertip on the corner of the newspaper and spun it around to face him. He hadn't quite mastered the skill of reading upside down, though he was working on that as well. He read briefly.

_**Edison Labs Burgled. No Suspects. **_

_**Inventor Mum on Missing Items.**_

"Ah," Bryce said. "Famous guy got robbed. How exactly is that Secret Service business enough to elicit a 'Damn,' Mr. Montgomery?"

Roan threw himself into a chair, and it creaked alarmingly. His mother's house, though in decent repair, had missed out on its yearly maintenance call, it seemed. If he was going to be cooped up much longer, Bryce would probably end up doing most of the needed repairs himself out of sheer annoyance. When he thought about it, maybe that was how Roan Montgomery got his repair work done.

"It won't say in the paper, Edison's to canny for that. But I can surmise what was taken. Photographic plates salvaged from the Roark Mansion explosion site."

"Photographic..." Bryce said. "Roark actually got his pictures of the future?"

"Yes," Roan grumbled. "Seven pictures of the future, and we couldn't make hide nor hair of them. So, I called in the biggest brains I know. Edison and Tesla."

"Nothing in here about Tesla being robbed," Bryce said once he finished scanning the paper. "Maybe he's next on the Ring's hit list?"

Roan cracked a smile for the first time since he'd come in from the stoop with the newspaper. "You're a natural, Mr. Larkin. I hate to throw you into the deep end, especially with your wounds—"

"I'm really feeling much better, just being up and on my feet."

"You were stabbed."

"With a pocket knife, and it didn't even go in all the way. I'll be fine," Bryce said. "My hands are good as new. Your doctors really know their stuff. So, what do you need from me?"

"I'm putting you on a train to New York. I want you to stick to Dr. Tesla like glue," Roan said. "Everywhere he goes, you go. Excepting the privy."

"People get killed on the crapper all the time," Bryce said.

"Well, if you want to try getting in there with him, be my guest."

Bryce shook his head. "I was just pointing out a hole in the protection scheme. Do I get a new name? Bryce Larkin being so dead and all?"

Roan tossed a small envelope. "You're John Anderson now, professional poker player."

Bryce frowned. "John?" He said, a little put-off. "Its fine, I just never really thought of myself as a John. It's a little... blah."

"Next time you can make up your own."

"How am I supposed to stay close to Tesla as a professional poker player?" Bryce said.

"Lose some money to him at the tables. Details of where the doctor likes to gamble are in the envelope."

"Excellent," Bryce said. "Do I get a gun?"

Roan managed to hold in the exasperated sigh.

* * *

Once Chuck fought down the blush from the latest outrageous thing she said, he and Sarah linked arms as they made their way after Abner's wagon toward the dry goods store. "I would appreciate it," he whispered. "If you would at least keep your voice down when you say things like that." Which promptly set off a new pinkish tinge across his cheeks.

Sarah grinned. "Oh. A reaction other than a mere blush. We're making progress," she pursed her lips for a moment in thought. "Now, maybe we should be looking for a room for the night instead?"

"It's hardly noon, Sarah," Chuck said. "Why would we—" He cut off and blushed furiously at a mere arched eyebrow, and she tried to suppress her mirth. Chuck cleared his throat. "Anyway, we need supplies, don't we?"

Sarah nodded with a sly grin. "Suit yourself."

"We need to talk," Chuck said.

"I don't like the sound of that," Sarah said. "But what—"

A gunshot ripped through the stillness of the morning. Sarah whirled, gun coming out of the holster even as she turned. Four men on horseback were coming at a gallop, firing pistols into the air. The gunfire was aimed at them, in a manner of speaking, but it wasn't a threat, it was a warning. Four men abreast on horseback took almost the entire thoroughfare, and they needed to move, quickly. Chuck, however had frozen, fumbling the gun from his coat.

"Damn it, Chuck," she growled and threw herself at him. Sarah put her shoulder into him and drove with her legs, propelling them both into the churned up muck at the side of the street. Her momentum sent her rolling off of him, but she still had a grip on his coat-front, so he kept on rolling as well, right over on top of her. Chuck put up a hand to break his fall, flinched when it landed on soft firmness and fell down onto his elbows, nose just brushing Sarah's.

Sarah glanced around to make sure she'd gotten them both clear of the maniacs on their horses, before grinning up at Chuck. "Well, if you wanted to get on top of me, all you had to do was—"

"Shh, stop that," Chuck said, and placed a finger to her lips. "You needn't think me oblivious. I've been trying to be a gentleman." Someone made a catcall from back by the saloon.

Chuck blushed and tried to lever himself up off of her without putting a hand anywhere he wasn't supposed to. A second time, at least. "Help me up," Sarah said. Chuck pursed his lips, a little put off that she thought she had to remind him of that. He was still a little vexed with her, so when he grabbed her wrist to help her up, it was more hauling than helping, and Sarah shot upward. She nearly lost her balance and had to put a hand to his chest to steady herself. Her eyes were wide, a little surprised that he'd had the strength to yank her to her feet so quickly.

After a quick step away, she looked at him in an entirely new light. She realized that she had been treating Chuck like he was made of glass, or porcelain, the sort of behavior that she never would have let any man try on with her. "Who the hell was that? Got us all covered in mud." Sarah said, flat ignoring what had passed while he had her pinned to the ground.

"I'm not sure its just mud," Chuck said, wrinkling his nose. Sarah glared at him sharply.

"It's mud if I say it is. And I think they deserve a piece of my mind." She especially wasn't going to tease him about where his hand had fallen in the tumble; he was already blushing every other time she even looked at him, and while she found it endearing, it probably wouldn't help him in the eyes of the townspeople. Chuck had been right. They did need to talk, and she needed to start acting professionally again. The plan to pose as a couple had just seemed the easiest at the time, but neither of them was equipped to fake such intimacy, she was rapidly discovering. Of course, if they weren't _faking_—

"Let's go talk to them then?" Chuck said, intruding on her thoughts. "Before they run off?"

Sarah nodded, and scraped mud from her side. "And then a bath and fresh clothes." Chuck tensed, probably waiting for her to suggest they take that bath together, but she refrained. Better to let him think of it and berate himself for the mental images now sprouting up in his head. See how he liked it for once.

It would have been a decent point about the riders getting away, but she doubted they were going anywhere. The gunfire had been more about drawing attention to their arrival and warning people in the street off. A crowd would be coming to see what all the fuss was about. "Something to add?" She couldn't quite help but ask.

Chuck merely shook his head, and let her lead the way to where a knot of people had surrounded the riders. Or, rider. Only one of the men was still on horseback, declaiming in a loud voice and waving his arms theatrically. The rest seemed to have melted off on their own, probably with their own smaller knots of intrigued townspeople. "And then Liam put a bullet in one of them buggers, and the rest of 'em run off with their tails between their legs."

"How many were there?" a shorter man, about Chuck's age, with a short-cropped beard and his hair slicked down with some kind of grease. "Should we get a posse together? Big Mike would loan out rifles to any man who doesn't have one ready to hand."

Someone barked a laugh. "You coming along, Grimes? That's a laugh."

"Oh, cram it, Barclay," Grimes shot back. "Nobody wants to hear you talk anyway," he turned to the man on horseback. "What do you think, then?"

The rider shrugged and put his thumbs through his gunbelt. "Well, I don't think those road agents will be trying it on again for a while," he said. "I don't see as we should risk more people getting shot trying to chase them down."

Sarah frowned, and glanced around, but everyone else seemed to be eating up the story, even Chuck. But he saw the look on her face and frowned inquisitively, at least. She cleared her throat. "Excuse me," she said, bringing the rider's attention. Now that she got a good look at him, Sarah's disbelief in the story seemed less and less her Secret Service ingrained paranoia. "How many did you say there were?"

The horseman shrugged. "I don't know. A dozen?"

She snorted. She couldn't help herself. "A dozen?" she echoed. "How did it start, bullets already flying before you knew they were there?"

"Something like that."

"A dozen men, with the drop on you, and they all missed their first shots? Its astonishingly unlikely," Sarah said. "Only, you don't look like a man as had a couple of his friends shot to pieces an hour ago."

"Listen you," the man started to growl, and then really got a look at her, and his tone shifted in mid-sentence, as he scrambled not to make a worse impression on the blond beauty. Sarah rolled her eyes at the transformation. "I meant to say half a dozen," he grinned, showing a gap in his teeth, and Chuck grabbed her around the waist possessively.

"Still," Sarah said, and looped her arm around Chuck in turn, though they would have a talk about this later. "You're lucky no one was hurt," but there was still doubt in her voice as she caught the eye of the bearded man, Grimes. "You're from around here?"

"Yes'm," he said, "Born and raised."

"Me too," Barclay put in. Sarah rolled her eyes.

"The point is," Sarah said, eyes darting up to the rider, who still hadn't found it prudent to introduce himself. "You have a lot of trouble with road agents in these parts?"

Grimes frowned. "Of course not. That's why we need to get after this lot," he said. "Can't let the word get out we're vulnerable like that."

Sarah's eyes bore into the man taking credit for running off the road agents. She let the corner of her mouth draw up at what she read in his eyes. "You're not vulnerable," she said. "Are they, mystery man?"

"But, he just said—" Barclay started before he took in the way the horseman was cringing. He would be a horrible, horrible poker player. The entire knot of townsfolk were suddenly turning hairy eyeballs on the would-be-hero. The rider swallowed nervously.

"It wasn't my idea," he said. "Liam is the one you want."

A pair of men yanked the rider from his saddle, and a moment later they had his gun away. Chuck tensed and whispered in her ear. "What are they going to do to him?"

"Relax, Chuck," she said. "They're just going to muddy him up a little. Maybe somebody will get a couple of kicks in, but it won't go past that. The ringleader is probably in for a pretty bad beating though, seeing as he probably tried to—" she grabbed him by the front of the coat and yanked him over close to the nearest building, out of the way of the mob of people carrying the former rider into the street and tossing him down in a pile of manure. They both winced.

"Tried to what?" Chuck said, for lack of anything better to talk about.

Sarah turned into him and brought her hand up between them, pointing subtle back the way they had come. "Tried to turn being a hero into a free go at the prettiest saloon girl, obviously. And now he's going to get dragged out in the street naked and get the stuffing kicked out of him."

Chuck blinked in disbelief. "Oh—"

"People don't take liars lightly. Especially when they make themselves out to be something they're not. Usually they're thieves or worse when they try on the grift."

He glanced around making sure no one was watching them. "That cut two ways? What about us?"

"Let me just say, its a good thing you proved to Abner you knew how to fix a clock," Sarah said. "I doubt we'd have got dumped in the fertilizer pile, but our reception would have gotten chilly a lot faster, as far as that goes. On the other hand, half the town probably knows by now you're a watchmaker, so... we could be visible to the Ring if we stay put for very long." Sarah shrugged. "I know it's awkward for you, and we really just met. But we need to do a better job being engaged. I can't believe you froze with that Lou girl at dinner last night. Did you actually forget we were supposed to be engaged?"

Chuck frowned helplessly. "I didn't forget, how would I forget something like that?" Chuck said with a grin. "If it wasn't just for show, I would have been better prepared. I promise." Sarah's stomach did a little flutter and she half scowled at him. He was teasing her, but he was trying to be subtle about it. "I just... I didn't know if it was going to be a long-term thing, or what? The Ring probably knows we're pretending to be engaged by now? Shouldn't we change up?"

"Chuck," Sarah said with a roll of her eyes. "There are three things we could be to each other that won't raise attention with us traveling together. Engaged or married." His eyes widened at that. "If we went for married we couldn't risk you sleeping on the floor." She arched an eyebrow. "Is that something you're comfortable with?"

Chuck swallowed the lump in his throat and leaned in close, his lips almost brushing her ear. "You really just can't help yourself with the teasing, can you?" he said, sending his breath across her neck.

Sarah shivered and pulled back. "Well isn't that the pot calling the kettle black, Charles Bartowski," she said, a genuine smile lighting up her face. "What brought on this performance?"

"Seems like we're finally safe, for the moment at least, and I realized I'd been letting you get away with so much, you might give me up as a lost cause," Chuck said, and brushed her hair out of her face. He used his thumb to smudge a flake of what he hoped was mud off her cheek from their tumble in the street.

"Perish the thought," Sarah said. She bit her lip and glanced around again. They seemed to have completely faded into the background of the town's 'issues'. Her lips pursed, and she got back to business. "We should use this opportunity to resupply, and slip away on the next stage before we attract any attention again."

"Abner's going to lose his eyeballs down your shirt again," Chuck said. Sarah's eyebrows went up in shock for a moment and the question in her eyes was so blatant, Chuck didn't need her to voice it. "You might want to..." he gestured vaguely, but she didn't figure it out. "I think maybe one of the buttons came off when you tackled me? Or more than one, possibly."

Sarah arched an eyebrow, and Chuck nodded down slightly, somehow keeping his eyes from dipping along with. Sarah glanced down at herself for the first time. Her mouth fell open in comprehension and she snatched the top of her shirt closed. "You couldn't have said something sooner?" Sarah huffed. "What happened to being a gentleman?"

Chuck grinned and shrugged. "I said I was trying. You've been making it har—" he blushed and stopped himself in midword. "...difficult."

"Interesting choice of words," Sarah grinned wickedly, and Chuck instinctively knew that this next tease she was cooking up was going to melt his brain if he let her finish. He wracked his brain in desperation, trying to figure out something to forestall her. He'd tried just asking right out, and that had only seemed to work for a few minutes, if that. He'd tried explaining, but from the looks of that grin, he'd just made things worse for himself. It was a desperate plan, but it was a plan nonetheless. "What were you going to say before you changed your mind? I make what ha—"

He kissed her. It was the only thing he could come up with. Sarah knotted her fist in his shirt and kissed him right back, after a moment of shock, as hard as she knew how. Her eyes fluttered closed. The moment stretched out, and she forgot about the Ring and the danger he was in for a time. She didn't care about remaining inconspicuous, or that she was acting unprofessionally, or how this complicated things. Sarah almost didn't care if she ever took a breath again. She moaned softly into his mouth and Chuck dragged his fingers into her hair.

"Wait," Chuck said suddenly as he pulled away. "You said three things we could pretend to be. What's the third?"

Sarah gaped at him. Had he really just asked her that? After _that_ kiss? She rolled her eyes. "After that kiss, Chuck, I refuse to pretend to be your sister. I flat will _not_ even make the attempt. That was certainly no way for siblings to behave."

Chuck leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. "No it certainly wasn't. Sarah... we need to take this... whatever it is... I really like you and I don't want to rush into something and—"

She put a finger to his lips to stop him. "Okay," she said. "I understand not rushing in, but ever since you woke up, you've been... I don't know, distant..." Sarah blew out her breath all at once. "And I get that you're hurting, and everything with the future visions and it's all really insane coming at you all at once and I'm sorry if I'm pushing you, I've never had a... whatever we are, and now _I'm_ babbling and—"

He kissed her again, maybe with a touch less passion, and much shorter. Sarah gulped a breath. "You should leave the babbling to the experts."

Sarah grinned and pulled his arm around her shoulders. "I'll take it under advisement," she said. "But if that's how you plan to stop me in the future, I make no promises."

Chuck laughed. "Fair enough. I suppose now we need to see about some new clothes."

"Yes," Sarah said, taking the comment as a reminder about the missing button of her shirt, she held the top closed as they made their way to the store. The crowd had mostly dissipated, while Chuck and Sarah had hashed things out. The unfortunate quartet of newcomers were the only people nearby, and it was all they could do to drag themselves onto their horses and limp out of town.

Chuck frowned at them. "So there weren't any road agents at all?" He asked.

Sarah shrugged into him. "The way he crumbled under just the suspicion like that? If there had been, he'd still be out there trying not to mess his drawers," she winced. "Sorry, I'm being myself. And myself sometimes forgets those old Secret Service etiquette lessons. I know you don't like it when I let loose—"

"Shh," Chuck said. "I don't want you to change who you are. I'm just still getting used to who I thought you were. And then you aren't her, but you're still you. It's taking some adjustment on my part, and that's normal, or as close as I guess we'll ever get, with me and my head stuffed full of the future. It hasn't changed the way I feel. I just needed time to... process, I guess is the word."

"Okay," Sarah said happily. The rest of the brief walk was held in amiable silence.

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: I don't know about this chapter. But at least now Chuck and Sarah are on sort of the same wavelength in terms of where they are in the relationship.

This chapter was really difficult to write, for whatever reason, above and beyond the stress of school starting up again. Maybe it's writer's block? Actually, it's probably guilt for not working on my thesis when I need to defend in... God... November? That's only two months away and I haven't finished a first draft!

So I regret to inform you, loyal readers, that Chuck vs the Frontier is going on hiatus for a while, at least until I get into some kind of rhythm writing the stories for my thesis. I don't want to say indefinite hiatus, but that's the proper word. I don't know how long it'll be before I can afford to pick this story back up, but I have outlines... So it will be back eventually.

In the meantime, drop me a review if you're so inclined. Every writer needs a quick ego boost now and again. Or someone to poke a pin in their inflated head. Either way, you know?


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Hiatus over! I know what I said when I went on hiatus from this story about my thesis getting in the way, but really I just had monster writer's block and that was a ready-made excuse. The time away, and coming at this story with fresh eyes really opened things up. There's no logical way for Jeff, Lester, Morgan or Big Mike to continue to be in the story, even peripherally. But that being said, I have actual plot to get to, so there's no longer that much time for them anyway. Maybe an interlude somewhere down the line I'll bring them back. But this is your one taste of Frontier!Jeffster for the foreseeable future.

Of course November is also National novel-writing month, which will take loads of time. We'll see how it goes. I'm not going back into hiatus on this story, but I'm not going to put a timeframe on the next update either. My blog will have progress bars for futures chapters. Since it's been so long between chapters, a brief refresher.

* * *

Previously: After their father's death, Chuck and adopted brother Bryce discover the true extent of their father's work, the Tesseract Engine, a machine which sees through time. To avoid its use by Stephen's corrupt business partner, Ted Roark, they storm the Roark estate to destroy the machine. In doing so, Roark is killed, and Chuck and Bryce are both injured. Chuck witnesses the machine in action and is nearly struck mad from the rush of information about the future.

Roan Montgomery and Sarah Walker of the Secret Service independently fake both Chuck and Bryce's deaths. Chuck, so he will be safe from power-mad offshoots of Revolutionary War spy organization the Culper Ring. Bryce, so that Roan can utilize his natural skills as a brawler, flirt, and card-sharp as his newest Secret Service Agent in the shadow war against the Ring.

Chuck and Sarah go on the run together, elude Pinkerton agents on their train who are probably working for the Ring —but might not be— and wind up in small-town Ohio, at the mercy of the bizarre denizens of Harpersfield Township. Also, they're currently pretending to be engaged.

* * *

Chapter 15:

* * *

John Anderson stood staring at New York city. The skyline was a thing of beauty, even if he knew that up close it made Boston at its worst look clean and fresh smelling. His train would have taken him right into Grand Central station, but he had a feeling he needed to alter his plans. It wasn't that he didn't trust Roan. Except that he didn't entirely trust Roan. Montgomery had told him Chuck was dead, but then there was John Anderson's very existence to muddy things. The man seemed much more enamored of faking death reports than a normal, well-adjusted person should. He couldn't know for sure, but chances were, Chuck was alive somewhere. Maybe he was even off being used in some plot of Montgomery's as well. John shook his head and glanced at the newspaper clippings in his hand. Damn it all, his name was Bryce. It had only been two days, but half the time he was even starting to think of himself as 'John.'

And there in his hands was his other problem. An obituary for Bryce Larkin, and snipped from the newspaper on the very same day, the announcement of Jill's Marriage to Cole Barker. His hand shook and Bryce barely managed not to crumple the paper into a ball. He couldn't understand it. She'd barely waited until the body was cold. And he _wasn't _dead! Bryce laughed darkly. Here he was, alive, and he couldn't help but think of himself as dead. He let out a sigh. He didn't really have a leg to stand on, if he looked at it objectively, and as difficult as that was, the only way he was going to survive long enough to salvage some kind of life from the train wreck of the last three weeks, he needed to view everything objectively. Logic, detachment, temperance. These were his tools, and so, as much as it hurt. He had to let go, of his worry for Chuck, and of his resentment for Jill both.

He pursed his lips and studied the two cuttings. Bryce let out a sigh and fished a match from his pocket, struck it against the rough stone wall he was leaning against and fed both articles to the flame. He held them fanned in one hand until the flames licked at his fingers, before he dropped them to the cobblestones and ground out the embers with his boot-heel. John Anderson felt his coat for the reassuring weight of his service weapon and made his way to the ferry that would take him into the city proper. He had a mission to carry out.

* * *

Big Mike Tucker turned out to be a huge bear of a black man, but in spite of his intimidating size, he was a jovial and congenial storekeeper. However, the force of his personality was incredible. Chuck and Sarah found themselves ill-prepared for the deluge of well meaning chatter. When the subject of their supposed engagement came up, the conversation took an immediate turn for the mortifying. Big Mike was full to bursting with romantic advice, all unsolicited, on everything from the wedding decorations, to how to control the gender of their children. For nearly half an hour, as Big Mike dominated the conversation, neither could get more than a word in edgewise. Finally, the man wound himself down with a hearty belly laugh. And his belly was certainly ample enough. "So, what can I get you two?"

Chuck blinked several times, trying to recall just why exactly they had come to Tucker's Dry Goods in the first place. "We..." he blinked again, and regained some of his composure. "We lost our baggage, and it will be a few days before we can get to Cleveland to reclaim it." He looked a question Sarah's direction. They hadn't discussed their next destination quite yet, but it stood to reason.

"Well..." Big Mike said, tucking his thumbs behind his belt buckle and drawing out the word. "The stage come through town once a week. Should be due in tommorry sometime. Or..." He glanced pointedly at Sarah. "Well, Cleveland's only forty-some odd miles as the crow flies. You might could ride it in a day, if it weren't for the missus. And if you had horses."

Sarah fought down a scowl. "Chuck. Have you ever ridden a horse before?"

"Well, not... I mean I've been on a horse, certainly. I just... forty-howmany-miles?" Chuck asked in only a slightly strangled voice. Sarah now fought down a snort of laughter.

Mike's mouth dropped open for a moment. They'd actually managed to strike him speechless. Given their initial exposure to the man, Chuck and Sarah were both rather pleased. "We'll need supplies. Which way to the livery stable? Money, Chuck."

Chuck blinked again, pulled the wad of bills from his coat pocket and handed it to her. She narrowed her eyes at him for flashing the money, and revealing the full extent of their traveling funds. It wasn't that she mistrusted Big Mike exactly, it was just that she hadn't noticed a 'set prices' sign out front, and even the most kindhearted shopkeeper wasn't above a markup for the 'fatcats,' which they would now find themselves numbered among. Sarah let out a sigh, counted off half the money and shoved it back in his coat-pocket herself, robbing Big Mike another chance to mentally gauge the thickness of their wallets.

"It's Barnes' and Patel's place, down the thoroughfare. I'll have someone walk you—" Mike started, but Chuck waved him away.

"She can handle herself," he said. Sarah grinned and tapped the handle of her one remaining peacemaker, tipped an imaginary hat at the both of them before making herself scarce.

"I sure hope you know what you're doing," Big Mike said. "Those two are... strange."

Chuck frowned. "How do you mean? Are they... together?"

Mike's eyes widened. "What, no! Just... I don't know what they are."

"You wouldn't happen to have any finely crafted watchmaker's tools by chance?" Chuck tried. It was a shot in the dark, but his aim wasn't any better when he could see, in any case all he'd wasted was breath if there weren't.

"No, sir," Big Mike said, suddenly all business again, he rummaged in a cabinet behind the counter. "But... well, I don't suppose jeweler's tools would—"

"Oh, but they'd be perfect," Chuck exclaimed, snatching the leather-roll away from Big Mike. He undid the clasp and flipped the roll open with an expert twist of his wrist. "The only difference really, is in the name," he said. "People call them 'jeweler's' tools and they think they can charge double."

Big Mike sighed. "Really? I hadn't heard that. So, you wouldn't by any chance..."

"I'll pay what they're worth," Chuck said, peering down the lines of tools in their little leather sleeves sewn into the roll. "Mmm. Excellent quality. Nice assortment of drivers, quite an excellent hole punch; wire coiler has seen better days. Mandrel, jigs, gauges, drawplates, tweezers in good repair. Oh, but there doesn't seem to be a magnifier." The disappointment was clear in his voice.

Big Mike shuffled his feet, sighed and stooped under the counter. "Well, actually. My eyes aren't what they once were. I been using it to do my accounts." He placed a small jeweler's magnifying lens on the counter next to the tool roll.

Chuck scooped it up and fitted it carefully into his eye socket before peering at the ridges of his fingertip, barely six inches from his face. The episode hit him unexpectedly, and he began to shudder and convulse. The magnifier fell to the counter and he tried to grab for the counter to steady himself, but his arms wouldn't obey his commands and Chuck slumped to the ground. As suddenly as the episode had struck, he was clear-headed again. Although now he knew the detailed history of the science of finger-printing ten years before it would be adopted in the United States, he didn't see exactly what use they could put the knowledge to. Still, he felt compelled to make some record of the incident.

"You alright, there?" Big Mike said with concern. "I know I near took a tumble myself when I tried the damn thing on, but I'd have thought you were used to that sort of thing."

Chuck shook his head, both to help clear it, and in negation. "No, no. I just..." well, he couldn't explain himself, not honestly anyway, "I haven't been sleeping well."

Big Mike grinned. "I'd wager not, if you don't mind me saying so."

Chuck winced. That hadn't been what he'd meant to imply. "I'll give you fifteen dollars for the set, and that's half again as much as you paid for them." Hopefully the change in subject would suffice.

The shopkeeper scowled. "You left out shipping costs."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "Sixteen then," he said. "And a pen and inkwell, cased. I should have thought to do up a list. Oh, well. Where to start?"

"I've got a lovely waterman with gold filigree and a—"

"Just the nickel-plated for a quarter-dollar will do."

Big Mike's jovial shopkeeper mask slipped just a touch. This customer was obviously going to be difficult.

* * *

Sarah was in another kind of difficulty altogether. "Hello?" She said carefully as she came into the livery stable. The smell of horseflesh and hay and manure pressed in all around when she crossed the threshhold. A bay gelding eyed her hopefully from a stall close to the door, and snorted when she wasn't forthcoming with an apple or carrot or the like.

She pressed her lips together in a tight smile and stroked the horse's muzzle. It quieted after a moment and pressed its head into her side so she could scratch behind his ears. Sarah scanned the yard for any sign of the proprietor, or a stable hand, and frowned. "Where is everyone then?" Sarah asked the horse earnestly. When she walked a few steps deeper into the gloom, the horse stamped one foot to draw her attention. Sarah chuckled softly. "Relax, I'll be back." The horse snorted again.

"Are you upsetting Roscoe?" A voice said from behind her. Sarah froze, stifling her first instinct to slap leather. After an interminable moment she turned.

"You must be Barnes?" She said. He was middling height, middle-aged, with wispy hair in a frizzy corona around his head. He had a bit of a beer gut and a look in his eyes that said he was looking to expand it.

"Are you a witch?" the odd man said slowly. "Don't turn me into a ferret."

Sarah frowned, reconsidering reaching for her six-shooter. "Why a ferret?"

"_Are_ you a witch?"

Sarah rolled her eyes, "Of course not. There's no such thing."

"Well of course, that's what a witch would say," a second voice said from up in the rafters. This time, Sarah went with her instincts, spinning on her heel to a firing stance on one knee, pistol in both hands for greater accuracy, trained where the voice had been. "Eeee!" The second man wailed in fright, losing his balance and pitching backwards out of the hayloft with a thump. He groaned feebly.

"Don't shoot Lester!" Barnes bellowed, and Sarah turned on him, pistol coming around.

She took in the genuine fear etching his features, and the tension bled out of her. "I'm not shooting anybody," she said. Sarah pointed her Peacemaker away from the cowering form of Barnes and slipped it back into its holster with a flourish. "I just want to buy a couple of horses, plus tack, feed for a week's journey."

"So... you're not a witch?"

Sarah frowned. "I already told you I'm not. Is your friend going to be alright?"

"mmmfine..." Lester mumbled.

"Okay, that's a relief, I suppose," Sarah mused. "Why did you think I was a witch?"

"You knew my name..." Barnes said with a shrug.

Sarah threw up her hands in exasperation. "Because your name's on a great damn sign out front!" she shouted.

Barnes scratched his receding hairline with a befuddled expression. "It is?"

Sarah let out a grunt of disgust and shook her head. "Please just let me buy my horses and go?"

* * *

Chuck was still haggling with Big Mike over something when Sarah stormed back in, her face a thunderhead. Big Mike coughed into his hand. "I did say..."

Sarah smoothed her features and glanced at the pile of merchandise Chuck had accumulated. She frowned. They were supposed to be traveling light. She crooked her finger. "A word?"

Chuck swallowed nervously at the menace in the simple request. "What's wrong?" he whispered once she had drawn him away from Big Mike. "Did you get the horses?"

"Yes, and I paid about half-again what they were worth just to get out of there quicker. You should have gone to buy the horses."

Chuck pursed his lips. "Mr. Tucker did try to warn you," he said with a shrug.

Sarah's scowl faded a little. "Still, I nearly shot one of them. You would have drawn less attention. We need to get out of this town before it swallows us whole."

"We couldn't just stay through dinner could we? Mr. Tucker invited us to—"

Sarah shook her head vehemently. "No. This is how it starts. First it's dinner. The next we turn around it's a month later and we just live here."

"Would that be such a bad thing?"

Sarah eyed him in disbelief. "You haven't met Jeff and Lester. Yes. We need to go, right now. The horses are saddled right outside. We can't—" she cut herself off to check to make sure Big Mike wasn't eavesdropping. "We can't afford to stay here even if those two didn't make my hair stand on end. We'd draw the Ring down on them eventually. The people here don't deserve what would happen to them."

Chuck nodded. He'd been a fool to think there could be any stability for him, while the Ring was still out there. He wondered idly if they had figured out he wasn't dead. It had only been a single day since the shootout with the Pinkertons on the train. Would they have been able to get word back already? Did the Ring have secure communications lines, their own private telegraph relays? His mind reeled with the possibilities. He just didn't know enough about their adversaries.

"What's wrong?" Sarah said, noticing the troubled cast of his eyes.

"Did I tell you how I liked puzzles?"

Sarah nodded. "Yes, that first day, before..."

Chuck smiled sadly. His memories of their first meeting were linked in his thoughts with his father's death, but still the natural manner with which they'd taken up made him smile. "I changed my mind. The Ring is such a puzzle to me, I can't even begin to fathom how to solve it. And that... vexes me."

Sarah gave him a half-smile. "We'll figure it out," she said and went on her tiptoes to brush a kiss onto his cheek. Chuck's eyes widened. "Oh, shut up."

* * *

Bryce was frustrated. He was trying to lose. Really he was, but the cards weren't cooperating. Tesla was at a neighboring table, and a seat had just opened up there. However, it would be suspicious in the extreme for a man on a lucky streak to suddenly change tables. If he'd been losing, it would have been simple, but he was winning. This last hand was just the proof of his bad luck. He'd been dealt a full house, fives full of sixes. In an effort to lose, he'd thrown two of the fives and a six, only to draw a four, seven and an eight, filling out an entirely implausible straight.

He had nearly turned the table over in disgust when that happened. Bryce was able to do the math involved in his head. Though he'd never have the head for Calculus that Chuck or Stephen had, poker probabilities were another matter entirely. The odds against such a draw were at _least_ a thousand-to-one. His frustration was such that he didn't feel like doing the full sums. The oddity of his winning streak was one thing, but... what were the odds of that draw. Four players in the game with five cards each, had taken twenty of the cards out of play. One man folded straight away, the second took two cards, the third, three. Twenty-five cards out of fifty-two, gone. And he'd filled out the straight, after throwing away the full house.

As Bryce hauled in his winnings he looked the dealer in the eye. He'd discovered the hidden mannerisms of his opponents at the table in short order. The balding man from Tennessee with the muttonchops fiddled with the buttons on his coat when he had a good hand. The older gentleman in the pressed suit tapped his fingernails against his teeth. The reedy-looking fellow with the thick Irish accent bit his lip. Bryce had figured each man out before half a dozen hands were dealt. He hadn't given any thought to the dealer's tells.

Bryce had won a good deal of the hands, but why would the dealer be cheating _for_ _him?_ It didn't make any sense, and Bryce didn't have Chuck's head for puzzles. They merely frustrated him. His hands still rested on the pile of chips. "You're a cheat," Bryce said, softly.

"What?" the Tennessean said sharply.

"Not you, the dealer," Bryce said with more force. "I threw away a full house and he drew me a straight."

"Now hold on, son," The older man to his right said thoughtfully. "You're telling us, the man's been cheating you, so you win? Why the hell didn't you just keep your mouth shut and take all our money?"

"I'm no cheat," Bryce said, eyes watching the dealer. "I'll take your money fair, but I'm no cheat."

"This is outrageous," the dealer mumbled. "I did no such thing."

"Check the cards," said the reedy Irishman. "What did yeh have?"

"Fives and sixes," Bryce replied. The man from Tennessee shuffled through the discards, found the pair of fives and the six Bryce had thrown. Play had come to a stop at the handful of tables that made up the basement poker hall on Manhattan's lower east side. All eyes were on the brewing standoff at Bryce's table. The balding man showed the cards around.

"If you'd just..." the dealer started. The older man had a derringer in his hand, pointed at the dealer's head.

"Why make the boy win?" The man said. "What is he to you?"

"Damn you, Larkin," the dealer said. "This wasn't the plan."

"How do you know that name," Bryce demanded. Behind him, he heard scuffling feet and suddenly, the click of a hammer being drawn back. Several hammers. He checked over his shoulder. Three men stood behind him with guns drawn.

"The Ring knows all," one of the gunmen said.

Bryce smirked. "Is that right? Then, will I ever find true love?" He threw the entire pile of poker chips in the man's face, and then the shooting started.

TO BE CONTINUED...

A/N: Evil cliffhanger is evil! My Chuck vs. the Frontier mojo is back, though. So, I'll try to resolve it in at most a week.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: I almost made this entirely a Bryce chapter, but I was afraid I'd get dragged from my house by an angry mob of Chuck/Sarah fans.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck, in this or any other time period

* * *

Chapter 16:

* * *

Bryce followed through on the momentum of his throw, spinning out of his chair entirely. He stayed low to the ground as he barreled forward. There was no time to go for his service weapon, but he didn't particularly need to. His fellow cardplayers were all reaching for weapons, though the man in the nice suit already had a derringer out. The other two gunmen opened fire at the same time as the elderly gentleman. He went down, but not before he put both bullets into the chest of the left-most gunman.

Bryce saw that much before he collided with the man he'd distracted with the face full of poker chips. The Irishman had a huge revolver of a kind Bryce didn't know, and Tennessee muttonchops already had a New Model Army revolver in each fist, much like the one Stephen Bartowski had owned. Bryce didn't really have time for thought. He grabbed the middle gunman's wrist with both hands and forced the gun up and out of line with anyone in the poker hall, stuck his leg between the man's feet and yanked him to the right, into the line of the third gunman's bullets.

The man Bryce had hold of jerked from the impact of his compatriots bullets in his back, and the man's grip went slack on his weapon. Bryce snatched the revolver and spun it around to face the third gunman at point blank range. The last gunman pointed his gun at Bryce's face and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked down on an empty chamber and Bryce shot him down, almost in the same instant. There was no time for Bryce to stop himself, or even realize that he should, before the third gunman was down, leaking a puddle of thick red from his skull. The poker-hall was suddenly silent.

He turned back to the dealer, who had grown pale with dread, or shock, it was difficult to tell, as the man wore a better poker-face than had any of Bryce's fellow players. The Irishman and Muttonchops each had a gun pointed at the dealer's head, and a hand at his collar to hold him still.

"What is the meaning of this!" a new voice demanded from behind him. Bryce tensed, but managed not to whirl around and point a gun at the man.

"You are the proprietor?" Bryce said evenly.

"I am. I demand to know what—"

"Treasury department," Bryce said, flashing his badge quickly. "How long has this man been in your employ?"

The Irishman and the Tennessean frowned at him for a moment, and the dealer tried to flinch away. The balding man with the muttonchops racked the hammer back on his revolver and turned a beady-eyed glower on the dealer. The man shrugged and ceased his struggling.

The proprietor looked for a moment as if he would fall over from shock. "Treasury department? I run a clean shop. There's no—"

"I don't care about that," Bryce said. "How long has _this_ man worked for you?" He waved his gun absently in the direction of the dealer.

The proprietor, a man in his early fifties, with his hair slicked down across his head to hide it's thinning, shrugged and looked ill. "A few days, no more. Perhaps a week."

Bryce felt his thoughts racing. Events had outpaced him somehow. If the Ring had someone here a week ago, waiting for him? That wasn't possible. A week ago, he'd been slipping in and out of consciousness, healing up. But the fact remained, a dealer at this particular poker-hall had been a Ring plant, for a week. He blinked as the puzzle came clear, and then grinned. Perhaps Chuck's obsession with puzzles had rubbed off on him in some small part.

"Hold him here until the police arrive. Tell them he and these three," Bryce waved at the dead gunmen, "Tell the police they attempted to rob you and were killed for their trouble."

The Irishman pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Is that really what happened, then?"

Bryce shrugged. "Near enough for Government work," he said, and tossed the pistol he'd appropriated down on the corpse of its former owner. "If you'll excuse me," Bryce shouldered his way through the press of onlookers and made for the door.

Outside, he caught up with his target. "Dr. Tesla?" Bryce said, grabbing the man's coatsleeve. He brandished his badge.

Tesla was thin, with dark wavy hair parted in the middle. He wore a thick mustache and a pair of spectacles perched on his nose. He was maybe seven or eight years older than Bryce, mid thirties at the latest. "I wasn't going to keep the money, I swear."

Bryce's next question jumbled up on his tongue. "What— what are you talking about?"

Tesla pointed to his spectacles, and then seemed to realize Bryce hadn't known about them. "Ah, nothing. Nothing," Tesla tugged nervously at his collar. "I really must be going."

Bryce frowned. "No, we need to talk. Why wouldn't you keep your winnings?"

Tesla eyed Bryce in a speculative fashion. "Perhaps this conversation would be better held, _not _on a public street? And an introduction would not go amiss." The accent was subtly off. Bryce couldn't place it, exactly. Not German, exactly, but similar, at any rate it was unimportant, though it did give Tesla a certain air about him of mystery.

He shrugged. "Agent Larkin, Secret Service. I believe you're being targeted by some very bad people. And not for cheating at cards."

"You work for Montgomery?" Tesla inquired.

Bryce tapped the side of his nose. "Those men came after me, probably because they thought I was after you. They knew my name, which shouldn't be possible. I'm supposed to be dead." He glanced around, then, suddenly became self-conscious about the public street. "You're right. We shouldn't be talking here. How far away is your lab?"

"Broadway, in Lower Manhattan," Tesla explained. "I try to test— ah... gamble, I mean, well away from people who might recognize me."

"What's the fastest route there?" Bryce asked.

"The elevated train. There's a station only a few minutes—"

"Good, lead on, Dr. Tesla. You can explain those spectacles of yours as we go."

Tesla seemed to deflate. "You will not report them to Montgomery?"

"That depends, I still don't know what they are!"

They walked side by side, Bryce scanning all around for more Ring operatives. It was difficult to know if anyone was following them in the press of the crowds, but it didn't appear so. Tesla took some time, gathering his thoughts. "The idea first came to me a month ago. There was a terrible rainstorm, and then after, rainbows all across the city. The view was spectacular," Tesla nodded to himself. "I began research into color photography at first, but..." he shrugged. "Too expensive... perhaps in another few years."

Bryce stared at the man in shock. "And instead you made...?"

"Ah, yes. The spectacles!" Tesla said. "Thank you, for reminding me," He snatched the wire frames from his head and passed them to Bryce. "Yes, yes... put them on."

Bryce frowned, but did as directed, and Tesla produced a deck of cards from his coat pocket, fanning them out. He blinked. Several of the cards were glowing. "What on earth?" He yanked the spectacles off his head and looked at the cards again. They were no longer glowing. Bryce stared at the spectacles in his hand for a moment, as it sank in.

"The lenses are treated specially. You see certain tints cannot be seen with the naked eye! I don't quite know yet why. Something to do with how light works, and..."

Bryce frowned. Chuck had said something similar. "Because light is both a wave and a particle?"

Tesla's jaw dropped open. "What! I..." he stuttered, and looked at Bryce in a whole new light. "That's brilliant! Yes, yes. It explains everything! I thought you worked at the Secret Service. When did they start hiring theoretical physicists as agents?"

Bryce winced. "I don't suppose I could get you to forget I just said that?"

* * *

The train ride was fairly uneventful. Bryce explained his reasons for being in New York as succinctly as he could. "I keep those pictures in my best safe," Tesla remarked as they walked from the elevated train station to his nearby home laboratory. "It is of my own invention," he seemed to calculate something in his head. Bryce recognized the expression from Chuck and Stephen Bartowski. "They'd need so much dynamite to blast open the lock, the contents would be mangled beyond recovery."

"Still, we need to be on our guard. Edison labs has already been hit. I don't know if they took the pictures or not, but if they capture you, Dr. Tesla, I doubt you'd be able to resist giving them the combination to your safe."

Tesla considered this. He took the thought of possible torture better than Bryce would have. "You may be right. As to Edison's copies...I may find Thomas crude, and something of a boor, but he knows well enough to keep those safely hidden. And you may call me Nikola. Dr. Tesla is for the investors, yes?"

Bryce gave a perfunctory chuckle. He supposed that had been a joke. Tesla grinned, so it seemed they were on the same page there at least. "Which one is yours?" he asked.

Tesla frowned. "Why do you ask?"

"The men with guns coming out of that building just up ahead were my first clue," Bryce whispered heatedly. "Get down!"

Bryce shoved Tesla down behind the stairs leading up to the nearest building, peering out at the men. One of them had a cloth-wrapped bundle held precariously in both arms. There were four of them, total, but only one man was carrying anything besides firearms. He frowned. Unless Tesla's safe was a lot smaller than the man had suggested, they hadn't taken the whole safe when they couldn't get inside it for the pictures. That was the logical step, to Bryce, but that wasn't a safe they were taking. None of this made any sense. Bryce was torn; they might be better served following the Ring operatives and discovering their base of operations, but they still needed to find out for sure if they had stolen the pictures.

"Flip up your collar," Bryce said. "And try to look inconspicuous."

Tesla's eyes widened, but he did as asked. Bryce stuffed his pistol into a coat pocket, but he kept it gripped in his fist, ready to draw and fire on a moment's notice. The handful of men turned away from them down the street, and Bryce determined to follow them back to their lair. "What now?" Tesla wanted to know.

Bryce thought about it. "Go inside your house. See what's missing, then catch up to me as fast as you can. We—hell's bells they've spotted us. Inside, now!" Bryce roared, yanking his pistol free. His first shot just winged the man carrying the bundle. The wounded man stumbled, and instead of dropping his burden to catch himself, opted to spin and take the impact all himself. Bryce would have frowned if he could have spared the split-second it needed. He crouched along the stairs, shoving Tesla toward the door. Luckily the thieves hadn't closed it behind them. Bullets began whining off the stonework around him. "Move, Tesla!" Bryce shouted, and his pistol barked twice more. The Ring operatives took cover and Bryce launched himself up the stairs into Tesla's house, slamming the door shut behind him. Bullets shattered glass in the front windows, and Bryce dropped to a crouch again.

"Stay down," he said.

Tesla glared at him from where he was sitting on the hardwood floor a few feet away. "You don't have to tell me!" he said. "I'm not the one with a hole shot through his hat."

Bryce blinked and snatched his hat free. "Damn me, that's twice," he muttered and tossed the hat aside. "I think you're right, Dr. Tesla."

"Nikola, please. We've been shot at together, I believe a first name basis is in order."

"Fine," Bryce poked his gun out a nearby window and shot the cylinder dry. One of the Ring operatives went down. People were screaming and it was a madhouse outside. Bryce fished in his coat for the handful of spare cartridges he'd thought he wouldn't require. "Go check that safe, but keep your head down."

Gunshots still rang out from the street. Where in bloody hell were the police? "Larkin!" Tesla hissed. "They didn't take my future pictures; the safe is untouched," he glanced around the room. "But it does look like they took my Earthquake gun."

Bryce's jaw nearly came right off his head it dropped so hard. "Your... Your what?" he finally said when he could get breath back into his body, and his jaw was obeying his commands again.

"My Earthquake gun," Tesla confirmed nonchalantly.

Bryce blinked and tried to put on some kind of professional face. This was his first Secret Service mission after all. It wasn't his fault that it had suddenly gone sea-monster shaped. "There's not even the slightest chance you're pulling my leg, is there Dr. Tesla?"

Tesla twirled his dark mustache between his fingers and shook his head sadly.

"How is that possible," Bryce demanded. "A gun that shoots _earthquakes!"_

"Well, you see, Agent Larkin," Tesla said, and flinched when a window shattered from gunfire. His tone took on a teacherly note, despite the precariousness of their situation. "It's not really so much a gun, and it doesn't so much _shoot_ earthquakes as it—"

Bryce cut in. "I'm going to stop you there, Dr. Tesla. You point this thing at— a building, say... and you crank it up? It has a crank?" Bryce used a lull in the gunfire to move closer to the doctor.

"It does indeed."

"So you crank it up, and what? The building falls down?"

"Well, it's more complicated than that, of course. But I suppose, in the simplest possible terms, yes. You could say that. Theoretically. I was inspired by the song, yes? '_Joshua fought the battle of Jericho, and the walls came a tumblin' down...'_" Tesla sang, his accent muddying the words a little, giving it an odd flavor.

"So it works by sound?" Bryce was in well over his depth.

"Quite so. You see, the resonant frequency of any object is such that—"

"I don't need to know. Earthquake gun. Stolen. By the same people who are right this moment shooting at us? Trying to kill us? This is, in so many words, a goddamn disaster."

"I'm sorry? How do you mean? A crime has occurred, I have been robbed, but surely it isn't a disaster. I can always build a replacement..."

There was a low pitched pulsing drone from the direction of the street, so low Bryce could feel the vibration in his bones. After a moment of the sound, the building began to shudder and quake. "You're a smart guy," Bryce said, waving at their suddenly quivering surroundings. "You want to reassess your stance on the subject?"

Tesla glowered at him. "Now, I think you're just being deliberately unhelpful."

Bryce rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. The man reminded him too much of Chuck.

"Helpful, right." Bryce muttered, glancing around. "Get those pictures out of the safe, we need to get out of here."

Tesla staggered when the building shuddered again and the walls tilted crazily, timbers creaked and window frames splintered. The entire brownstone shook. "Is there anything else in this place we could turn against them?" Bryce shouted over the rumbling of the machine.

Tesla shrugged. "I don't think so," he said, head bowed over the combination for the safe.

"You invented an _earthquake_ gun and you're telling me you don't have anything else lying around that can help us get out of here?"

Tesla shook his head helplessly, working the dial of his safe. "No of course not. I don't make weapons. I want to help _build_!"

"How does an earthquake gun help build things?" He said angrily. Tesla crossed his arms. Perfect, now the man was going into a sulk. Bryce poked his head up to glance out the front windows, and a bullet shattered the pane a split second after he ducked back down. "Perfect, they're bringing the building down around our ears, but they still take the time to shoot guns at us. Did you try the back door?" He shouted to Tesla over the constant rumbling of the building as it shook itself apart.

"I haven't, but I know it will be stuck fast. The frame is bent due to the strain. I have the pictures," Tesla said, waving a thick leather envelope. "But we're trapped!"

Bryce awkwardly went to the inventor's side, running crouched over so the gunmen in the street couldn't see him.

"Well, what's this thing?" Bryce said in exasperation, picking up a heavy metal box with a wire trailing from it that sat on a nearby countertop.

"It makes toasted bread," Tesla explained, shaking his head. "Or it would if the timer would work properly. Right now it just makes charcoal."

Bryce's mouth dropped open and he looked at the boxy machine again. "It makes... toast?" There was a slot in what he had to assume was the top of the thing. "So the bread goes in here and— Why didn't I think of that? It's bloody brilliant."

"Well, don't take this the wrong way, but I am a genius. Though now would not seem the proper time to discuss it, yes?"

Bryce hefted the toaster as another shudder wracked the building. "Your toast making machine is going to get us out of here."

"What? How?" Tesla protested. "It only burns bread."

He smirked at Doctor Tesla, savoring the moment briefly. Then he launched the ten pound metal cube through the nearest window leading out the back face of the building.

"Ah," Tesla said. "But there is still glass on the edges of the pane to cut us to ribbons."

Bryce's smirk didn't shift a whit as he hauled on the trailing wire from where he sat. The toaster popped back through the window, and he caught it, smashing it into the sides of the frame until the last shards of glass had been knocked free. He turned back to Nikola and arched an eyebrow. "Genius, huh?"

"Oh, yes... good show," Tesla gave him a mocking round of applause. "Give me a hand through the window? I'm a scientist not an acrobat."

Bryce cupped his hands and gave Tesla a leg up through the window, then leaned out to help him lower himself down. Only at the last second, before following himself, did Bryce wonder if Tesla would be up to the challenge of helping him down in the same manner. Instead, Bryce just jumped. It was only ten feet, and he landed easily, pulling his service revolver. He scanned the small vacant lot behind Tesla's building. There were a couple of alleys leading off between the buildings away from where the Ring stood out in the street using the earthquake generator. "Find some cover, I'm going to see if I can get that machine back," Bryce said, breaking the action on his revolver to check that he had a fully loaded cylinder.

"Don't die, please, Agent Larkin," Tesla said.

Bryce rolled his eyes. "I'll do my best," he shot over his shoulder quietly as he slipped down the alley back the way they'd come. The droning, pulsing note seemed to seep into his bones. He hid behind a pile of refuse and a pair of tin trashbins clogging the mouth of the alley, peering out into the street. The bins were rattling faintly from the building's vibration. There were four men in police uniforms directing traffic around the stoppage in the street where two Ring operatives were working Tesla's machine. A third was openly brandishing a pistol toward the front of the house. He couldn't see the fourth, or his body. He remembered seeeing one of them go down. A policeman came up to the Ring operatives with his hand out, and was given a wad of bills, in broad daylight, on a crowded street. Bryce cursed under his breath, and considered taking a couple shots at them anyway.

He heaved a sigh and slipped around back. "Tesla!" he whispered harshly. "Dr. Tesla, where are you?" Tesla appeared from behind a weathered crate of something, hands up.

When he spotted Bryce, his hands came down and he frowned. "No luck?"

Bryce shook his head angrily. "They've bribed the local police to run interference. I expect we'll find the 'finest police force in the world' coming 'round the back side of the lot for us any minute. I'm open to suggestions at this point."

Tesla sighed. "I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this," he said, and beckoned Bryce to follow him. Tesla led the way back to that crate he'd hidden behind. "I found this..." the man explained.

Bryce frowned, reading the engraving on the metal grate. "Pneumatic train tunnel?"

Tesla nodded. "Yes, they were started back in the sixties, but never finished. These buildings were all built later. The tunnels are all but forgotten. It doesn't go far, maybe a hundred meters, if I recall correctly. But there are other tunnels it must cross. Steam and utility tunnels, sewers. Perhaps we can slip the noose?"

"You ever go down there exploring?" Bryce said. Tesla shook his head, and Bryce shrugged. "It's your bloody city. Lead the way, man."

Tesla looked at him expectantly. "I will expect your help with the lock, Agent Larkin."

"Right. Stand back," Bryce said and leveled his revolver at the lock. Tesla wisely stuck his fingers in his ears. Then he blinked and grabbed Bryce's wrist, pushing him over a step and angling his gun-hand slightly.

"So your shot does not rebound and slay you," Tesla explained. "It would be an inauspicious start to the famous partnership of Tesla and Larkin."

Bryce arched an eyebrow. "Larkin and Tesla," he said. "I'm the one with the gun."

"Fine, alphabetical is better sense anyway," Nikola grumbled. There was a shout from one of the alleyways. "Hurry!"

Bryce placed his bullet carefully, and with a crash of metal, the rusty lock fell free of the hasp. He turned in the direction of the shout, hauling the hammer back for a second shot. "Tesla, go!" Bryce shouted, crouching down to make himself a smaller target. The metal grate squealed on its hinges and boomed against a nearby trashbin when Tesla flung the way open.

It was indeed the police, and not one of the Ring operatives. Bryce considered briefly shouting his Secret Service affiliation, but if the police had taken bribes already, switching sides now wouldn't obviate that transgression. It would just call attention to it, and from what Roan had told Bryce about the Ring, once you took their money, they didn't take kindly to welshers. Still, Bryce felt decidedly uneasy about firing upon police officers. He scanned the other alleyways, and didn't see any others yet. Bryce ducked back down.

"I saw you, you little guttersnake!" The policeman shouted. "Give it up now, breaking and entering isn't a hanging offense."

The man was just trying to confuse the issue more, Bryce decided, and he fished in the pile of garbage he was huddled behind. His fingers found glass of some kind, and tugged it free. An old whiskey bottle, perfect. Bryce flung the bottle sidearm, around his cover, where it smashed into the brickwork of one of the neighboring buildings. A gunshot boomed, and he tensed, but he wasn't hit; Bryce ducked around his cover and noticed—yes, the man was looking the wrong way now. He kept low to the ground, gun trained on the policeman as he backed down the stairs into the grating. The man still hadn't turned. Bryce started to grab for the grating, to pull it back over the entrance and disguise their escape route, but he remembered the telltale squeal the rusty hinges had given when Tesla opened the way into the experimental train tunnel, and grimaced. The policeman would spot the opening eventually... and then... Bryce's attention turned back to Tesla's building suddenly. The back face of the building split and a section of masonry tumbled free to send a pair of trashbins tumbling with a crash and a billow of stone dust. The building visibly shook, and Bryce's eyes widened. He'd forgot about the bloody _Earthquake gun! _The rumbling had taken on a background presence in his mind, even as he and Tesla had been shouting over it before they opened the grating. The building couldn't stay up much longer.

"Oh, what else can go wrong?" Bryce complained, grabbed the grating and hauled on it. Above him the building seemed to lean drunkenly over him. The hinge squealed harshly and the policeman whirled.

"You there! Stop!"

Bryce somehow found a smirk on his lips. "You've got your own problems, Copper." He shouted, and yanked the grating shut above him.

"Agent?" Tesla said from somewhere in the darkness.

"The building is coming down!" Bryce shouted. "Shake a leg!" The tunnel was darkened, but Bryce could make out tracks and some kind of train car up ahead just a bit.

Light coming through the grating was just enough for Bryce to see Tesla standing by the odd train car. "It's still working! You shake a leg!" There was a boom from up above, and Bryce glanced back to see a huge plume of dust billowing through, darkening the tunnel further. His legs pumped and he charged toward where he had seen Tesla last. A hand grabbed him by the collar and Bryce tumbled into the train car. "Hold on, Agent." Tesla said, fiddling with some levers. "This could be a bumpy ride."

Electric lights flickered in the car, showing red upholstered seats with holes eaten in them by rats or the like, and brass piping that formed rails, like on one of the ubiquitous Boston streetcars. The car lurched into motion, and Bryce got shakily to his feet, shouldering the door closed as the wave of dust hit them. The tunnel shuddered with the impact and the train picked up speed quickly.

The cloud of dust receded slightly and Bryce breathed a sigh of relief. "Nice work, Dr. Tesla," he said.

"Please, Agent Larkin."

"Alright, Nikola. And, my name's Bryce," He said. Then, Bryce frowned. "So, you'll just stop us when we get to the end of the line? A hundred yards you said."

Tesla blinked. "Stop? No one said anything about stopping!" Bryce's heart seemed to stand still for a moment, until Tesla laughed. "This time, I _am _pulling your leg," he said, and patted one of the levers with a proprietary air.

Bryce breathed a sigh of relief.

* * *

Chuck levered himself out of the saddle gingerly, doing his best not to groan aloud. Sarah had called a halt, finally. She had dismounted easily, leaping off her horse as if forty miles in the saddle had been nothing out of the ordinary. The sun was setting, and they were still miles out of Cleveland proper. They'd begun passing larger and larger towns, and scattered farms, but Sarah had stopped at a deserted stretch of road.

"Why are we stopping?" Chuck said. "We could make one of those farms in the distance before full dark."

Sarah glanced over her shoulder at him from fiddling with her horse's saddle. "I don't think we should always depend upon the kindness of strangers, Chuck."

Chuck blinked and shuddered, and put a hand to his head suddenly. Sarah turned and hurried over. "Are you alright?" She said. "What... was it something I said?"

He shrugged. "It's hard to explain. Not important, really anyway," Chuck said. He shook the lingering ache out of his head. "You were saying you suspected random farmers of being Ring operatives?"

Sarah frowned, not ready to give up on the subject. Finally she sighed. "You make me sound beyond paranoid, Chuck. I didn't say any such thing," she said. "But you have to admit, we seem to draw attention everywhere we go. I don't half doubt the whole town is still talking about us. That boy Abner was spreading who knows what rumors about us. You know how men gossip."

Chuck blinked and decided, judiciously, not to challenge her on that claim. "Well, I do know he was quite taken with you in particular. Maybe if you wore a sheet over your head we'd be less remarkable."

Sarah glared at him. "You don't think that would call attention all on its own?"

Chuck shrugged. "Just trying to be helpful."

She rolled her eyes and turned back to whatever it was she was doing to her horse's saddle. "Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to unsaddle your horse?"

"Oh," Chuck said. "Is that what you're doing? I'd love to, but... uh... how exactly do I do that?"

Sarah frowned incredulously. "You don't know how to..." she trailed off, and cocked her head, beckoning him over. "Here, it's really quite simple." Sarah undid the saddle girth and the cinch, then the billet strap before hauling the whole thing free with one smooth motion.

"Oh," Chuck said and turned to see to his own mount. "Seems easy enough."

"Actually, Chuck," Sarah said. "Be careful, sometimes horses can sense when you don't— oh, hell!" She bolted over and grabbed the reins before Chuck's horse could do more than shake his head angrily.

Chuck looked up, eyes wide. "What did I do?"

Sarah looked over his work undoing the saddle. "You forgot the billet, that strap around the back part of the saddle, so when you tried to pull the saddle off, you got the strap... um..." Sarah debated a way to say it delicately. "It's a boy horse," she tried.

Chuck blushed and grimaced in about equal measure, then he shivered slightly. Sarah frowned until she realized he was imagining the same thing happening to himself, and then she grinned toothily at him until his ears turned red. Chuck scratched at his stubble and leaned in close to the horse's ear. "Sorry about that," he said. "Won't happen again."

Sarah stroked the stallion's forehead. That and Chuck's reassuring tone helped quiet the horse. "You come up with a name for him yet?"

Chuck frowned. "I hadn't given it much thought. Weren't we just going to sell them again when we hit Cleveland?"

Chuck's horse stamped a hoof, and Sarah arched an eyebrow. "Horses aren't cheap, Chuck. If we keep buying and selling we'll be out of money before we get where we're going."

"Where was that again?" Chuck said. It came out with more edge than he meant it, and he grimaced. "I didn't mean that to be so harsh. I know you're looking out for me, but... where _are _we going?"

Sarah frowned. She hadn't given it much thought. With the horses, they were free to go pretty much wherever they wanted. She could hunt or trap enough to keep the pair of them fed almost anywhere, and fodder for the horses was easy enough to come by. It was just a matter of what would be safest for Chuck. "Cleveland first. We need to get my codebook, and... my rifle. They should still be in my trunk."

Chuck shook his head. "Won't the Ring, or the Pinkertons or whoever, have already gone through all that?"

"I don't know," Sarah said. She showed Chuck how to curry the horses while they talked. "But we don't have any way to contact Roan without those books."

"But I saw his obituary," Chuck said.

Sarah smiled wanly. "I'll believe Roan Montgomery is dead when they parade his corpse in front of me. Even if he is dead, we'll need to sound out his replacement, and to do that, we need the ciphertext. Once we have that, I'll need try to make contact, see if Roan is alive or not."

"How will you know?"

"Secret Service stuff, Chuck," Sarah said, inspecting his work. "I'll know. Good enough. Come on, let's sit down."

Chuck eased himself down carefully. He was still saddlesore. Sarah plopped herself down next to him easily, and he stifled a groan. "I'm worried about Ellie," he said.

Sarah put her chin in her hand. "I know," she said. "I've been thinking about it too. I'm sorry I put her name in your fake obituary. I was thinking like a friend, not an Agent."

"What? That wasn't your fault," Chuck said. "The Ring was targeting my father, you said so yourself."

"That's correct," Sarah mused. "But I'm the one who mentioned Ellie."

"And if you hadn't?" Chuck said. "They were watching my father, maybe looking to get leverage on him. They'd know about her anyway."

Sarah winced. "You're right," she said, then grinned. "If I hadn't put her name in your obituary, they'd have wondered why not. Maybe even figured out you were alive that much faster. But this just..." she stopped suddenly and looped an arm around his neck, planting a kiss on his cheek. "I'm still sorry."

"What for?"

"For not putting all this together earlier. I've been so busy trying to make your ears burn, I haven't been doing my other job. You shouldn't have had to figure this out," Sarah said. "You told me you were worried about your sister on the train and I shot you down because... I don't even know why. I wasn't thinking about it like I should have. I don't know, maybe part of me thought you'd put a halt to the cover where we're engaged if we made straight for your sister. I know you won't like to lie to her."

Chuck frowned at that, arching an eyebrow. "So you _like_ pretending to be my fiancee?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Don't poke the bear, Charles Bartowski," she said. "Clean out your ears, because I won't say this very often... I'm... very fond of you. Probably more than I should be. I also won't say this very often: I was wrong. You were right. We need to check on your sister."

"But no telegraphs, no letters?" Chuck asked. "That doesn't change?"

"No, it's still too risky," Sarah said. "If the Ring _is_ going after your sister, they have to know you're alive, and they could be monitoring the Telegraph companies. If we contact your sister, we risk tipping them off and putting her in greater danger. They'll only be monitoring her in case you come for her. Our one great advantage is surprise, unpredictability." Sarah gestured to the starry sky. "We could quite literally go anywhere. That makes tracking us difficult if not impossible."

"Except they know we need that codebook."

"Maybe, if they've searched my trunk and figured out that's what it is the first place."

Chuck arched and eyebrow. "Isn't a codebook fairly obvious?"

Sarah shook her head and produced a thin waxed envelope. "It isn't like you'd think," she said. "It's just a book. A novel, if I remember right. Something about whales. Anyway, this is the protocol," Sarah waved the waxed envelope. "It dictates what lines, and page numbers are to be used. It's fairly complicated, and we shouldn't go into it right now. But I need that book, both to encode messages, and to decode the responses."

"Whales," Chuck mused. "It's _Moby Dick?_"

Sarah shrugged. "I think so, I've never read it."

"Well, that's no problem then. We just pick up a copy at a book seller and..." he trailed off. Sarah was shaking her head emphatically.

"No, we need that_ particular_ book," Sarah explained. It's been reprinted who knows how many times, and I didn't think to recall which particular print run of the book I had. If it doesn't match Roan's copy exactly, the message will be indecipherable."

Chuck grunted. "Its a dangerous risk. Your trunk is probably in some Ring warehouse somewhere by this point."

Sarah nodded and scooted closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder. "I know, but without it, we're completely cut off. We have no way of knowing if Roan's dead or alive, if it's safe to stop running. We can fight back if we have that book, otherwise... we just run. For the rest of our lives, and we can never stop running."

Chuck found himself absently stroking her hair. "I don't know that I'd really be all that fussed," he said. "Running away with you..."

Sarah raised her head to look at him carefully. "Chuck," she said, voice heavy with emotion. "Don't... don't say something like that. We could never stay in the same place more than a few nights in a row. We could never..." She stopped. It was far too soon to voice that sentiment out loud, or even let herself think it. "You don't know what these people are capable of. The rest of our lives wouldn't be very long. They'll find us eventually, and the dying will be the best of it. With that book, we can fight back. Roan can help us stay hidden, if he's still alive; if that's what we need to do, but without it we're blind. I'll be able to tell if it's him or not I correspond with. I know it's a risk, but it's a necessary one."

"And if he really is dead?"

Sarah felt cold. "Then we'll need what's in your head, really need it. I don't want to put you in that situation unless we have to. There are... ways... to access that information, but it could be dangerous. For you."

"I trust you," Chuck said without hesitation. "Never doubt that. You're right. Running won't solve anything. We'd just be pulled down eventually," He bent and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I want to fight back. So, what's first?"

"First is the book," Sarah breathed. "And then New Orleans. We make sure Ellie is safe."

"And after that?"

Sarah gripped him tighter. "Then we take the fight to them."

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: Tesla's earthquake gun is a real thing... maybe. The story goes, he nearly shook a building down with it in midtown Manhattan. But then, he realized what was happening and smashed his invention with a sledgehammer before any lasting damage could be done. He destroyed the plans, never worked on it again and refused to speak of it when asked.

I almost titled this chapter _Larkin & Tesla: The Ultimate Team, _but decided against it due to possible spoilers. (Who here gets this reference? Show of hands!)

Drop me a review please, whether you liked this chapter, or thought it was turbo-lame. I'd appreciate specifics, on either front, but even just a simple 'attaboy' is appreciated. A simple 'you stink,' while technically acceptable under my criteria, isn't really helpful to the process. A 'you stink, and here's why,' is much better.


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: It's taken me a while to get my Frontier groove back, and I'm sorry for the long gap between updates. I'll try to do better in the future. This story _is _going to get finished. I have a solid outline for the upcoming chapters and barring another bout of Frontier-block I should get more timely updates out.

* * *

Chapter 17:

* * *

"Well," Chuck said when their meals had been dropped in front of them. "We should probably go over the specifics, don't you think?"

They had left their horses at a livery stable just at the outskirts of Cleveland, Ohio, and found a restaurant that was serving breakfast only a couple streets over. Sarah shrugged and crunched a strip of bacon between her teeth. "It should be fairly simple. When the train came in and our luggage went unclaimed, they'll have set it aside, at least for a few days. We just find out where, and then I'll break in and swipe it during the night."

Chuck arched an eyebrow. "Because claiming it legally would be too easy?"

Sarah smiled and shook her head at his naivety. "Too easy? More like too dangerous," she said, checking to make sure no one was in earshot. The closest person was all the way across the room, and despite his ramshackle appearance, Sarah lowered her voice anyway. She'd learned her lesson from the woman on the streetcar back in Boston who had turned out to be working for Pinkerton's Detective Agency. Sarah wasn't taking anything for granted anymore. "And besides, I shot up a handful of Pinkertons on that train. They may just be waiting for someone to come along and claim that trunk so they can take us."

"Oh," Chuck said, and shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. "I should have thought of that, shouldn't I?"

Sarah reached across the table and put her hand over his. "Don't be so hard on yourself," she said. "You're doing better than I would expect most people to do, with all the cloak and dagger skullduggery." She gave him the ghost of a smile, and he returned it in spades, which of course made it impossible for her not to flash him a full-on grin. But now wasn't the time for flirting. Sarah sighed heavily and flicked her eyes down at her food. She ate mechanically, hardly tasting her steak and eggs. It was fuel, little more, like stoking a steam engine.

Chuck frowned. "What's wrong? Did I do something wrong?"

Sarah looked up, fork halfway to her mouth. "No, of course not. I'm just..." she sighed again. "You didn't do anything. But, you _are_ a distraction, and I'm trying to plan in my head how this is going to go down. We'll need supplies, and I was making a list."

"In your head. You were making a list in your head, when I have a perfectly good writing set?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Putting things to paper means they can be used against you later."

Chuck nodded. "Yes. But only if you're fool enough not to burn them after," he said, pulling his pen and tightly stoppered bottle of India ink from a coat pocket, along with a tiny leatherbound notebook. "So, let's make this list."

Sarah pursed her lips as if to protest, but took in the set of his jaw and relented. It would be good to have Chuck involved in the planning. She didn't want him to feel left out, or as if he wasn't pulling his own weight. Sarah had a gut feeling that Chuck was one of those people who needed to feel useful, or they became melancholy. "Alright," she said, voice low so that it wouldn't carry, "you win, Chuck. First, we'll need dark clothes, dark brown or gray preferably."

"Not black?" Chuck frowned.

Sarah grinned. "Actually, on a city street, at night, black is actually darker than the pavements. Whitewashed buildings on a moonlight night take on a grayish tinge, and wood paneling or brick bleeds into brown. If we need to blend in, remain unseen black clothes would be just as likely to give us away."  
"Oh," Chuck said thoughtfully, as if coming to a realization. "You've done this sort of thing before... I defer to your experience."

Sarah paused. There was something odd in the way he said that, but she shrugged it aside. "So, dark clothes, fifty foot of half-inch rope. A blackjack and a grappling hook wouldn't go amiss, but I doubt we'd find those quickly without drawing attention to ourselves. Two heavy rucksacks, locksmith's tools. What else?"

Chuck blinked. "A... grappling hook?" he whispered.

Sarah arched an eyebrow and nodded. "Of course. Standard equipment for a job like this." He had paled visibly, as the seriousness of their mission dawned on him. "Relax," Sarah said soothingly. "I've done this sort of thing dozens of times. Nothing to worry about. We'll get my codebook and be out again before anyone knows we were ever there. Trust me."

Chuck managed a smile. "Of course I trust you. This is all still somewhat... jarring to me."

Sarah reached across the table and squeezed his hand, and her lips twitched in a wicked grin. "I understand. I'll try to be gentle, since it's your first time."

Chuck blushed furiously and Sarah stood to leave, dragging Chuck to his feet by their linked fingers.

* * *

Bryce tripped and something shattered. He smelled rancid oil, and threw up a hand to stop Tesla. "Damn," he said. "We need light. What are the chances that was a lanttern I jut broke?"

Tesla chuckled darkly. "I'd say excellent," he said. "It can't have been the only one. This tunnel in particular was built back in the forties, so it won't have been electrified. I'm surprised there were any in the train car. Just move slowly."

"You wouldn't happen to have any matches? I've only a handful, and I want to husband them."

Bryce could hear Tesla patting his pockets. "Ah, yes." There was a rattling sound behind him. "It sounds like a dozen or so."

They fumbled in the darkness as Tesla handed Bryce a match, and Bryce felt his way to the rough worked stone of the tunnel to strike the match. A tiny quivering flame illuminated a few feet of the wall, and a row of lanterns.

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "We can light as many as we like."

Tesla shook his head. "I'd suggest against it. The building collapsed on our entrance, until we make sure there is another place for air to enter this tunnel system, we should limit ourselves to one lantern. Too many flames could suffocate us."

"You sure about that?" Bryce frowned at the older man from behind his lit match.

Tesla grinned. "Which one of us is famous scientist?"

Bryce grunted, and then cursed as the match burned his fingers. He started to throw the match, but Tesla surged forward and grabbed his wrist. "What's wrong with you!"

"Don't? There's kerosene on the floor, remember?"

Bryce swallowed what else he was going to say, and a shiver went through him. They wouldn't have been able to douse such a fire if he'd carelessly tossed aside the burnt stub of a match as he'd intended, and caught the spill from the first lantern he'd 'found' with his boot.

He was still catching his breath when Tesla lit a second match and very carefully lit one of the lanterns hanging along the wall. It gave off a horrendous stink, and Bryce was surprised that there had been any oil left at all after, dear Lord, fifty years the tunnels had been abandoned? Bryce shook his head, and his eyes widened, taken aback at the sight before him.

The tunnel itself was drab, unfinished, as he might have expected. It had only ever been intended as a test-bed. A proof of concept for the subterranean railway. What really took him by surprise, was Tesla's appearance. His overly neat appearance previously had stuck in Bryce's mind, and he'd half expected the scientist to be spotless. This was not the case; Tesla was coated head to foot in a fine gray dust, his dark hair white with the stuff. Bryce pursed his lips, and reached into a coat pocket for a handkerchief, and held it out to Tesla.

"Keep it, I have my own," Tesla said. He barked a laugh. "I suppose I look something like yourself?"

Bryce looked down at himself in the newfound light, and snorted a laugh of his own. "I'm amazed we didn't cough ourselves to death."

Tesla and Bryce made a quick circuit of the tunnel, or what was left of it. The building collapse at the far end had done it part, but the support beams all through the tunnel were either sagging or already half consumed by dry rot. They were extraordinarily lucky that the entire place hadn't come down. As it was, the far third or the tunnel was a rubble-strewn mess. There was no hope at all of going out the way they had come in, and so far, neither man had seen any kind of access hatch or stairwell. There had to be a secondary access, somewhere; it was only common sense. The air tasted stale, but they had been down there for nearly an hour already, so Bryce imagined their air supply was coming from somewhere.

At last he sighed. "Let's sit for a moment," Bryce said, leading the way back to the half-ruined passenger car from the test-train. The windows had nearly all shattered in the crash, but moldering upholstered seats were better than nothing. Bryce hung the lantern from the frame of a broken-out window and sank into what had once been an unnecessarily plush bench seat. Tesla sat across from him, a thoughtful frown carving furrows in his brow. "Something on your mind?"

Tesla nodded. "Yes, my friend." He pulled the thick leather envelope holding the pictures of the future the Tesseract Engine had produced from under his coat. Tesla tossed the envelope to Bryce nonchalantly.

Bryce frowned. "Don't you need these? To study them?"

Tesla shrugged. "I've already gleaned all I could. Which wasn't much. Besides," he poked one finger into his temple. "I have an eidetic memory."

Bryce arched an eyebrow. "A what? What does that mean?"

Tesla shrugged self consciously. "They say elephants never forget, yes? For myself, it is true as well. I have them up here." Again he tapped the side of his head.

Bryce let out a low whistle. "That must be useful."

Tesla shrugged. "I don't often think of it. Though it sometimes seems odd that people must write everything down. If I wrote down the plans for my inventions anyone could stroll into my laboratory and steal them."

Bryce shook his head at that logic. "Kind of like they did with your Earthquake gun?"

Tesla winced. "Well, yes. I didn't say it was a perfect system, did I?"

Bryce snorted. "So, hang on. You could build another one of those devices if you had to?"

Tesla nodded earnestly. "Of course. If I had the parts, and access to proper tools. I cannot just will one to appear. Why do you ask?"

Bryce shook his head. "I don't know. It's probably nothing. The Ring brought down your house, buried your experiments under who knows how many tons of masonry."

"Approximately six hundred forty—" Tesla started, but Bryce cut him off with a slashing gesture of his hand.

"Not important right now, Nikola," Bryce said. "How many people know about your Edwardian memory?"

"Eidetic," Tesla corrected, then shrugged. "Not many, I tend to keep to myself. Why?" But then his eyes widened. "You think they destroyed the building not necessarily to kill us, but to destroy any plans for the device."

Bryce nodded. "I just don't know... why? If they want to knock down more buildings, they could do just as well with dynamite, from what I understand of their resources," Bryce said. "If they weren't after those pictures from father's machine... why do they need your Earthquake device?"

Tesla frowned, and his eyes drifted to the envelope clutched in Bryce's hands. "Those pictures. You say your father took them?"

"Long story," Bryce said.

"Another time then," Tesla said, but there was a glint in his eye. He obviously wanted the whole story of the machine out of him. Bryce couldn't hardly blame the man. The doctor frowned, then went on. "Why _did _they take my Earthquake machine? I don't understand. None of this makes sense."

Bryce wrinkled his nose. "Do you smell that?"

Tesla sniffed the air, and then clamped a hand to his nose, nodding. "Like a sewer."

Bryce grimaced. "That might be our only way out of here. Help me smell for it."

"Uch, really?" Tesla complained.

Bryce shrugged. "The Secret Service isn't all about gunfights and counterfeiting and crooked poker games, Niko. Sometimes it's about wading through sewage, apparently. Believe me, I'm no happier about that last bit than you are."

Tesla sighed and reluctantly got to his feet, and the two men began their search anew.

* * *

Once they came out of the store with the supplies, she set off to locate her trunk. Sarah found the warehouse where her trunk had been set aside easily enough; she sauntered into the train depot, leaving Chuck outside with the rucksacks. She walked out a few minutes later, wiping blood from her knuckles. There had only been one agent watching the depot, which simply confirmed her suspicions that the Ring was keeping tabs on their belongings. The warehouse would be much better guarded, but she was undeterred.

"Did you kill him?" Chuck asked, nervous.

"It was a her," Sarah said. "Why does everyone always make that assumption? And no. A body would be a dead giveaway."

"Won't she report back to her superiors in the Ring?" Chuck frowned. Sarah wasn't making any sense. What had gone on in that office?

"I tied her up and put her under the floorboards," Sarah said. "We've got a few hours before someone misses her."

"You're sure about that?"

"I put a sign up," Sarah said. "That she left early for the day. And even if they're on alert at the warehouse, I can get us in and out, no problem."

"I wish I had your confidence," Chuck said.

"You don't need it," Sarah said, winking at him. "You've got the whole package."

"What do you mean?" Chuck said and cocked his head to one side.

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "Me, dummy. You don't need my confidence, because you've got the whole thing," she said, curving one hand down her side demonstratively, and her voice changed, becoming softer. "You've got _me._"

Chuck gave her a thin smile. "You're just trying to distract me from the danger with your feminine wiles."

Sarah nodded and slipped an arm around his waist so she could rest her head against his shoulder. "Is it working?"

"Not in the slightest," Chuck said. "Try harder."

Sarah glared at him out the corner of her eyes and went up on her toes and tugged his earlobe between her teeth.

"Ack! Not that hard!" Chuck gasped, pulling away from her.

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "Well, make up your mind, Mr. Bartowski," she said in a whisper that Chuck felt all the way down to his toes. He shivered despite his best efforts.

"I— shouldn't we be planning or something?"

"Yes. But we need a room until tonight," Sarah dipped into his coat pocket for some of their traveling money, and slipped the bills into her pants. She pointed out a sign for a flophouse. Dusty brown oak siding and a ramshackle appearance gave him hope that a room would be fairly cheap. They were running through their money at an alarming rate, even with the large amount they had begun their journey with.

The proprietor glared and charged them a sight more than Chuck expected, and he frowned at the coins Sarah thrust back at him after paying. "Why did he charge us so much?" Chuck said.

Sarah gave him a curious grin. "Because he obviously thinks we'll only be a few minutes. Maybe half an hour if you've a particularly strong constitution."

Chuck still didn't seem to get it, and she rolled her eyes. "I'll say it straight out, then. He thinks I'm a prostitute, and you're my customer."

Chuck's eyes widened and he blushed. "Did you tell him that? Why would you do that? I'll have to set him straight."

"Don't," Sarah shook her head and put a calming hand on his shoulder. "I didn't tell him anything, you were there the whole time," Sarah said, shoving him into the room when he hesitated. "A fifty mile horseback ride, and then we didn't have time to find a bath-house and clean up, so we hardly look very reputable, either one of us. And besides, we'll be far less remarkable if he goes on thinking what he does about us." She grinned. "Though, I suspect he'll be looking at you in an entirely new light, when we leave in a few hours," Sarah said with a twinkle in her eyes. "Your _stamina_ might leave a greater impression than we'd like_._"

Chuck sometimes felt as if he'd blushed more in the few short weeks he'd known Sarah than in all his life previously, but he somehow fought the reflex this time. He arched an eyebrow, "What's noteworthy about a mere couple hours?" He managed to say it with a straight face. And Sarah's eyebrows shot up about equal to the distance her jaw dropped.

"You're joking, of course," Sarah said after a moment to recover from the shock, and Chuck adopted a quizzical expression, somehow maintaining his composure. "You are _joking_, aren't you? Chuck, answer me!"

He broke down then, laughing fit to burst his lungs, and she scowled and punched him in the arm. "I'll teach you to laugh at me," she grumbled, and shoved him back onto the bed. Chuck tried to sit up, but Sarah planted herself on his chest and stifled whatever it was he had been about to say with a searing kiss.

Chuck broke away with a dazed expression after an unmeasurable period of time. His eyes glanced around to be certain they had only been kissing for moments and not hours. Chuck usually had perfect time. He always knew what time of day it was, and could time an hour to within a few seconds without really thinking about it, but kissing her, he'd lost track of the _year._ He gasped a lungful of air. "How was this supposed to _stop_ me from teasing you again? It's hardly an effective deterrent."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Who said anything about deterrence?" she said, and rolled off of him. Sarah's breathing was a touch ragged as well, Chuck was pleased to see, but she regained her composure much more quickly than he did, tucking stray locks of her golden hair behind her ear. "Now, we should do some actual planning for tonight before I decide to maul you again."

* * *

Bryce held his nose and pressed on, but Tesla grabbed his sleeve. "Wait," the scientist said, pulling Bryce to a sloshing stop. "We should put the lantern out, before we go much farther."

He arched an eyebrow in confusion. "Why? We'll not know which way we're going."

Tesla nodded. "I know, but... judging from the smell, we might be approaching a particularly volatile concentration of methane and other flammable gasses in our air supply. Better blind than burned to death, you see?"

Bryce's shiver had little to do with the dank chill of the sewer tunnel far beneath manhattan. He sighed and lifted the glass hood to blow out the flame, resigning himself to darkness. Only, it wasn't the pitch darkness they had encountered in the pneumatic train tunnel after Tesla had mistaken the throttle lever for the brakes on the test-train and crashed them into the far end, disabling the primitive electrified lighting in the car.

No, there was a dim light coming from somewhere, enough that he could just make out the outline of Dr. Tesla a few feet away. Bryce cocked his head slightly, trying to catch a faint sound from far above them, just a whisper of sound. "Do you hear that? It sounds like someone speaking?"

* * *

The stained-glass windows peered down majestically upon the crowd of well-wishers, family and friends.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and these witnesses to join these two in holy matrimony. I ask that if any man have just cause that they should not be wed, let him speak now or forever hold his peace," The priest turned from the altar to address the congregation. He was met with silence, and gave the crowd a few seconds. "Well, that's a relief," he said, to a ripple of laughter from his flock, and started to turn back to the bride and groom. There was a sudden crunch, reverberating through St. Patrick's Cathedral.

"Ouch! Curse you Larkin, that's my foot!" A voice in accented English echoed through a suddenly very still Cathedral.

"Well if you'd stop crowding in behind me I wouldn't step on you, _Doctor_. I can't see anything anymore. Are we—"

"Don't see how this is my fault! You're the one who left the lantern behind."

"I needed both hands for the steel grating into— what is this place? Some kind of catacombs?"

"Sh! Do you hear that?"

The congregation began to buzz. Some trick of the cathedral's acoustics amplified the odd voices coming from... where exactly, no one knew. The priest walked around in consternation, trying to determine the source of the voices, and a stone heaved out of the flooring with a harsh grinding sound. A stench like the bowels of hell preceded the apparitions, pale and chalky like the grave.

Two men, or what had been men, possibly, stood before the wedding guests, eyes popping on congregation and intruders alike.

"Uh, don't mind us," Bryce finally said, with a roguish grin and tip of an imaginary hat to the bride and groom, dusting himself off. "Carry on, we were just passing through..."

* * *

"Stay here until I give you the signal," Sarah whispered. They were sheltered in an alley across the street from the warehouse, and from their vantage, Sarah could make out half a dozen sentries. The sun had set, and this section of street still had gaslamps. The lamplighter was running late for the block, thanks to a generous donation on Sarah's part that had further eaten into their shrinking stack of emergency funds. It wasn't quite full dark yet, but Sarah was confident in her abilities.

"What signal?" Chuck asked, and Sarah merely grinned.

"You'll know it when you see it," she said, tugged him down so she could give him a quick peck on the cheek—she didn't want to risk kissing those devilish lips of his and find herself unable to pull away, again—and walked out into the street as if she owned it. Chuck was momentarily flummoxed. He'd expected her to stick to the shadows, and skulk along. She had most of her telltale blond locks tucked up under the hat she'd bought for _him_, but he hardly thought that enough of a disguise; men's clothes or not, few could fail to realize she was a woman, not with that face and figure. But the men on watch, Ring operatives or Pinkerton detectives was an impossible question to answer from that distance, tucked away in the mouth of the alley, they ignored her to a man.

Sarah made it to the halfway point of the block without raising the alarm, leaned against the wall of the building facing the warehouse and stopped to light a pipe, which had also come out of their traveling funds. He still hadn't gotten a good solid answer out of her as to why she needed a pipe. Chuck had always found the habit mildly distasteful, and he blinked as the shiver of foresight went through him.

_**SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Smoking Causes Lung Cancer, Heart Disease, Emphysema, And Smoking By Pregnant Women May Result in Fetal Injury, Premature Birth, And Low Birth Weight**_

Chuck's eyes widened and he glanced around for Sarah. He wasn't concerned for her immediate safety, but she'd insisted on the ride to Cleveland that he tell her any time he saw into the future. This was important knowledge, which could potentially save God only knows how many lives. The only problem was, Sarah had quite simply disappeared. None of the sentries seemed to have noticed her disappearance, and Chuck himself couldn't afford to do more than scan around for her in the vain hope that. He blinked against a sudden light and put a hand up to block the glare.

The light was coming from a window high up on the side of the warehouse. Chuck squinted, but couldn't make out anything beyond the somewhat painful light. It went away quite suddenly, leaving an afterimage in his eyes, then blinked on and off a erratically. Chuck shuddered again as he felt a future full of knowledge open briefly to him. Morse code, though he had learned some basics, from his father, Chuck had never intended to join the Navy, so it hadn't been a priority. Now, for a time, he could read it as easily as he could a technical diagram of the inner workings of a watch.

_**Two inside. Walk to the window. Don't sneak.**_

Chuck nearly panicked at the thought of walking out in the open like that, as Sarah had, but he was well-armed, and might be able to scare the sentries into cover with gunfire long enough to lose them in a dark alley if it came to that. And, when it came down to it, he trusted Sarah far more than he had any logical reason to.

He strode out of the alley at as close to his normal walking pace as he could come. It was a constant struggle as he went not to rush, not to make for a particularly inviting clump of shadows near the edge of the street. Finally he got to the position Sarah had indicated, where she had lit the pipe. Which was still lit, he spotted, resting on the discarded hat. Chuck bent down and retrieved it, and after a moment of thought, placed the hat on his own head. It seemed the difference in their height probably wouldn't be that noticeable in the dimness just after sunset, and they still had a few minutes before the lamplighter came through. Chuck reluctantly put the bit of the pipe between his teeth and glanced around. One of the sentries looked right at him, and Chuck remained motionless, trying to will the man into not looking too closely. Unnervingly enough, the man nodded briefly at him.

"Hsst," came a harsh whisper from above him, and a loop of rope landed on his shoulder.

Chuck looked up and met eyes with Sarah, peering down at him. She made an odd gesture, which he imagined meant for him to tie the rope around his waist. Chuck frowned. This part of the plan had always seemed a little hazy, and Sarah had glossed over it as if it was no concern. There was no way she could lift him straight up nearly thirty feet in a dead lift. He knew Sarah was fit, and well muscled. The time she had spent curled up on his chest kissing him in that dreary hotel room came flooding back at the thought, and he shook the image out of his head. But he still tied the rope around his waist, wondering all the while what she could possibly intend—

Chuck bit off a curse as he was yanked off his feet and straight up. The pipe flew from his teeth and he nearly lost the hat as well. The trip up stopped suddenly, and Sarah had both arms around his waist in a bear-hug. Then she was grabbing the rope to steady him, hauling him into the window. "Dear god, Sarah!" he said in a low, but still hoarse whisper. "How did you do that?"

Sarah arched an eyebrow and glanced up, then down. They were on a catwalk above the warehouse floor, and his eyes followed the rope up to a compound pulley and then down to where she'd tied the other end securely around a pair of barrels in a kind of rope netting. Chuck hadn't heard an impact, though, he had been distracted by being whipped through the air. "Won't they have heard that?"

"Shh," Sarah said, untying the rope from around his waist. "I measured carefully. We've got another foot to lower those in a moment, gently," she grunted, and Chuck realized with a start that Sarah was using her own weight to keep the counterweight from dropping the last few feet. It was a thoroughly ingenious plan, and he was a little miffed that she hadn't shared the full drama of the plan with him. "Ready?" Sarah whispered, and at his nod, she took his hand and placed it on the rope. The barrels slowly came to a stop with barely a whisper of sound.

Sarah bent at the waist briefly and came up with one of her stockings, black with lacy bits around the top, which caused Chuck's eyes to cross, imagining them on her. In her hands they looked long enough to go all the way up, and- She smacked him gently to bring him back to task and shoved the silky smooth material into his hands.

"Disguise," she said. He frowned at her, which he was surprised she could make out. It was just as dark inside the warehouse as it had been outside. Sarah growled something under her breath and whipped the stocking up and yanked it down over his head. Chuck blinked and tensed. It was a decidedly strange sensation, and knowing that it was one of Sarah's stockings on his head didn't help. Only when she had pulled the twin to the one he was wearing over her own head, did he realize how effective a disguise it was. The tight fabric smushed her features together and made her completely unrecognizable, and the dark color would help them blend into the shadows of the warehouse.

"Lead on," Chuck whispered, falling into step behind her.

"There are four more in here with us," Sarah's whisper was just barely visible, and he was all of two feet away from her. "Three playing cards in the office downstairs. The fourth is roaming around the back." She pointed and leaned in to let him follow the line of her arm. From their high vantage point, they could just make out the man peering through the lines of shelves. Luckily the man had his back to them, though Chuck doubted they would be easy to spot in the darkness. "Careful," she said. "No sudden movements. The human eye mostly tracks movement in the darkness, and relies a lot on sound to corroborate. Stay back a ways. I don't want you to give us away with the sound of your boots."

"What about your boots?" Chuck whispered back, and Sarah glanced down and wiggled her bare toes at him. Apparently, Sarah had been wearing both of their disguises herself until just moments ago. Chuck inhaled deeply without meaning to, and was glad of the the dark fabric hiding his subsequent blush.

Sarah shook her head, and probably rolled her eyes at him, though her mask hid it from him if she did. She padded forward along the catwalk and motioned for him to stop where he stood. Chuck froze in place beads of sweat cold on his brow. The man below them was moving. Chuck couldn't see enough to know what had caught the man's attention, but he seemed to be moving toward the side of the Warehouse where Chuck and Sarah had made their entrance. Damn, he must have spotted the barrels out of place. Chuck opened his mouth to whisper his conjecture, but Sarah held a hand to her lips and moved quickly, against her own advice.

All that about the eye tracking movement didn't seem to apply to Sarah. She was only a vague shape in the darkness a moment later, grabbing the railing and tossing herself over it, she walked along the outside of the walkway for a moment before dropping to the top of a nearby row of shelves with no sound whatsoever. And disappeared into the darkness entirely.

Chuck could feel seconds slipping by, their window for escape dwindling with the approach of the lamplighter in the street. Almost he could hear a clock ticking in his head. The seconds stretched out to maybe thirty before Sarah reappeared on the shelves where she had disappeared, waving him forward. Chuck complied and only hesitated for a moment when Sarah beckoned for him to come over the railing and join her on the top of the shelves.

From there, Sarah climbed down and offered him whispered guidance, until they were both standing on the warehouse floor. "The guard?" Chuck whispered, and Sarah pointed to a nearby shadow, which Chuck only recognized as the man's unconscious form with difficulty. Chuck felt a shiver. He'd never heard a sound. "Is he—?" Chuck started, but Sarah shook her head.

"Sleeping only," Sarah whispered, "now help me look for the trunk." This was the part of the plan that had seemed so simple back at the flophouse, but it proved thoroughly impossible. In the darkness, Chuck doubted even Sarah could recognize her trunk among many others so similar, and Chuck himself was pretty much hopeless, despite the detailed description Sarah had given him.

Finally, exasperated, Chuck threw up his hands. "It's not here," he hissed.

Sarah appeared out of the darkness at his elbow. "Of course it's here," she shot back.

"Maybe you were lied to back at the depot," Chuck suggested.

Sarah waved it away, he could make out. "She wasn't lying. Trust me. I don't know where it could be if it isn't... oh, balls," she breathed. "Stinky, pox-ridden balls."

Chuck's eyes widened at her choice of expletives. "What?"

"Come on," Sarah said, and tugged him along in her wake, toward the lit doorway of the office where the remaining guards were playing cards.

"What?"

Sarah peered through the crack in the door and let out a barely audible sigh. "My trunk," she explained in a voice that reached his ears, six inches from her mouth, but that was about it. "They're sitting on it."

"What do we do?" Chuck asked.

Sarah merely shrugged. "Frankly, I've no idea."

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: Sorry to leave it there, but cliffhanger-revenge for recent chapters of _Chuck vs the Pacific Northwest _demands **all chapters end in cliffhangers**.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: I felt the spirit move me on this story for the first time in weeks, so... Bam! Surprise-Ninja-Update-Attack! No beta, because then there would be no surprise...

* * *

Previously:

_Sarah peered through the crack in the door and let out a barely audible sigh. "They're sitting on it, [her trunk]" she explained in a voice that reached his ears, six inches from her mouth, but that was about it._

"_What do we do?" Chuck asked._

_Sarah merely shrugged. "Frankly, I've no idea."

* * *

_

Chapter 18:

* * *

Chuck's eyebrows rose at this admission. "None at all?" he whispered. This was well outside his experience, usually Sarah was the one who knew what the _hell_ was going on.

Sarah shrugged, then shot him an exasperated frown and poked him playfully in the ribs. "Why do I always have to think up the plans, huh?"

He started to protest, but she grabbed his arm and hauled him back into the gloom of the warehouse. "Where are we going?"

"Just— away from the guards so they don't hear us running around like chickens with their heads cut off," Sarah explained and glanced over her shoulder at the splay of light coming from the cracked door to the guardroom. She sighed. "Come on, any ideas?"

"Well," Chuck said. "I've seen you..." he made a pantomime with his hand, chopping at the air.

Sarah rolled her eyes. "There's three of them, even with surprise, three on one, one of them would get a gun out."

"And we'd end up shot," Chuck finished. "Right, bad plan. We could just go in shooting? With surprise on our side..."

Sarah shook her head. "Worse plan. We might be able to just storm in and come out alive, our gunfire or theirs either way, it would alert their friends watching in the street. We can't have any shooting."

Their brief retreat had brought them back to the unconscious form of the man Sarah had clocked, though now that he thought about it, she probably hadn't done anything so mundane as whapping the man over the head with a pistol butt, which would have been Chuck's first instinct. Some kind of Secret Service proprietary maneuver was more likely.

He slumped his shoulders, and his face fell. Chuck wasn't having any better luck coming up with a plan than she was. His eyes fell to the unconscious bulk of the Pinkerton detective, and he remembered. Chuck blinked and bent to check the man's pockets. He found an empty hip holster, of course Sarah had taken his weapon away in case he awoke sooner than anticipated, though the man's hands and feet were tied with baling twine, several thicknesses, with a connecting line to keep him from standing. All in all, first rate work, in utter silence in the dark. His questing fingers finally found what they were looking for. "Ah," Chuck said, and fished the man's badge out. "I may have the rudiments of a plan," he said flashing the bit of tin at her. It glinted subtly in the dark. Sarah's teeth reflected a point of light from some source of illumination somewhere.

It was something of a boring assignment, keeping watch over a trunk full of—actually, he wasn't quite sure what it was full of— but they were making half again their standard rates, to play a leisurely game of low-stakes draw poker, so boring was just fine. Joe was drawing to an inside straight and made it, which even with the stakes set to a dollar limit, he might make something happen. Which of course, is when the door snapped open.

The three of them all went for their irons at the same time, but the intruder was waving a badge, and Joe grunted and shoved his pistol away. The man was tall and thin, with a scruff of beard giving him a somewhat sinister edge; he had a swagger that was hard to fake. "What is it?" Joe said.

"There was some kind of disturbance outside," the newcomer said. "Jim asked me to get somebody to help search the warehouse."

Joe sighed. "Sure thing," he tossed his cards down reluctantly, "Come on you two, no peeking at my cards."

Frank arched an eyebrow. "I fold then," he said, and shoved away from the table. The newcomer waved them into the warehouse ahead of them. Frank and Ned were already through the door when Joe paused.

"Wait!" he said. "Who the hell is Jim?" He turned to find himself staring into the business end of a .44, and nearly swallowed his tongue. His eyes crossed trying to center the gaping maw in his vision.

"Just stay nice and quiet," the gunman said. "Nobody needs to get hurt."

"What are you crazy," Joe sputtered. "Frank and Ned are right outside; they'll plug you full of holes like that weird cheese."

"Frank and Ned are indisposed at the moment," A woman's voice said from behind him. "You got this, Chuck?"

Chuck slipped Joe's six-gun free of its holster and tucked it away in the small of his back. "Oh don't mind me," Joe said. "I'm no hero." The woman's hand grabbed his wrist from behind, and that was his chance. The man wouldn't risk shooting his partner, and he could hold her hostage and yell for help—

Joe struck as fast and as hard as lightning, but his fist only hit air. He staggered into the door frame, clawing for the knife in his boot. Something hit him in the back of the knees and he toppled over backward, the world tilting at a crazy angle. The wind went out of him and he rolled onto his side. He saw a dainty looking fist heading for his eye and fireworks went off behind his eyes.

"Well," Sarah said. "That was a little more exciting than I'd have liked."

"Indisposed," Chuck arched an eyebrow.

Sarah produced a leather cosh sewn with lead weights from behind her back, then made it disappear again. "No time for chit chat," she said, rushing over to her trunk and checking the lock. She frowned. "Odd. They didn't even try to open it."

"How can you tell?" Chuck said curiously.

Sarah gave him a look he was beginning to think of as the 'guiltily begrudging information' look, and then shrugged. "The poison needles haven't been tripped."

Chuck coughed into his hand to hide his shock, but he wasn't far off from biting his knuckle to hide his apprehension. _Poison needles!_ Once more, he realized that he didn't really know her at all.

Sarah caught his eye and he spotted a brief pang of some emotion in them, and he muted his fear, shrugged. "You're just full of surprises today."

She tossed one of the knapsacks at him. She'd insisted he leave both with her when he went into the guardroom, to aid his deception. "Hold that open for me," Sarah said, and delved into the trunk. First came the fateful copy of _Moby Dick, _then a bundle of clothing. His or hers, he couldn't say, and he preferred it that way, really; having Sarah handling his underthings, or handling hers, either way he should have been embarrassed, but he could fool himself into thinking of them as just things, divorced from any dangerous and still new feelings so long as he didn't think about it too much. And now he was thinking about it, damn it all.

Then she handed him a sword of some kind, and his eyes popped. "A sword?" he said in shock.

"Wakizashi, technically," Sarah said.

"Oh, because that makes it better?" he shot back. Sarah grinned and produced a sawed off 12-gauge shotgun, and a veritable armory of exotic bladed weaponry he couldn't put names to, stuffing most of the weapons into her knapsack, then a second bundle, not of clothing. She slung her knapsack onto her back and straightened.

"Come on," Sarah said in a breathy whisper, taking back the wakizashi and tucking it through the strap of her pack so that the handle poked up over one of her shoulders. "We've still got to get out of here without being seen."

Chuck forced breath into his lungs. He really wasn't cut out for sneaking into places, he'd come to realize over the past twenty minutes or so, and he hoped it wasn't going to be a big part of their struggle against the Ring. A fool's hope, he suspected, but still. After a moment, Chuck blinked. "We aren't going out the front door, are we? What happened to unseen!"

"Relax," Sarah said. She turned and appraised his body language, and sighed. "Trust me, Chuck, I know what I'm doing."

"I have no doubt," he said. "That _you _know what you're doing. _I _on the other hand am just making a hash out of everything."

Sarah planted her fists on her hips and glared at him. "You're doing fine, just keep calm and I'll get you through this." Suddenly, she leaned forward, grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down to her lips. Chuck froze momentarily, and by the time he recovered the kiss was finished. She patted him on the cheek.

"No fair," Chuck complained, "I wasn't ready."

Sarah grinned. "That'll teach you to always stay on your toes then," she said smugly, and started for the door once more.

Chuck tore his eyes back up where they belonged, banished the images out of his head and followed. He understood her game there with the kissing. Distract him from possible mortal danger with her lips which were just about the best lips ever, and... he frowned. Knowing that was why she did it didn't appear to help him put his mind back on the reality of potential gunfire-y death in the near future. He knew it was possible, but also in the future was possibly more of that nice thing they had been doing with their lips, and Chuck found himself right on her heels without another moment's hesitation. He really hoped she didn't figure out exactly how badly she affected him, or he'd be powerless against her.

Sarah held up her fist and Chuck stumbled to a halt a bare fraction of a second before he would have collided with her. She grinned toothily over her shoulder. "Not so eager, Chuck. Time for that sort of thing once we're safe." Chuck blushed crimson, but thankfully the darkness would hide that from— "And don't think I don't know you're blushing yourself silly. Don't need to see it to know its happening."

"Are we going to try to sneak past all the armed guards or not?" Chuck said testily.

"Spoilsport," she said, and Chuck didn't need to see her to know she was rolling her eyes at him. "Alright, let's go. Stay low."

Sarah cracked the door open and peered out. The sentries hadn't moved, she was pleased to see, although it was a breach of proper discipline, and they really _should _have been patrolling, instead of just standing around with their thumbs up their collective. And she _really _shouldn't be complaining about it. Sarah dug in her pocket briefly and then chewed her lips. "Chuck," she whispered out the side of her mouth, "Do you have any matches?"

He fumbled in his pockets for a moment, "Yes, hang on," he said and slipped it to her. Her hand was warm against his fingers. "Here," he said. "Be careful, I don't think I have any more."

"I only need one," Sarah said, striking the match on the nearby brickwork.

"What are you doing?" Chuck wanted to know.

"Shh," Sarah insisted. "Later." She flicked her wrist, and Chuck peered around the doorframe.

"What was that supposed to do—ack!" Chuck cut off when Sarah yanked him back out of sight. There was a bang and a flash of light. One of the sentries shouted, and men came running.

Sarah flicked her wrist again, and laced her fingers through his. "We run on three," she said.

Chuck opened his mouth to protest, and Sarah clamped her free hand over his mouth. Smoke erupted around the cluster of sentries. "Three!" Sarah hissed without preamble, and hauled him through the door after her.

They darted across the street, back to the alley they'd started out from and skidded to a halt. "I can't believe that worked!" Chuck whispered.

Sarah poked him in the ribs to keep him moving down the alley. "Of course it worked, it's me."

He shrugged defensively. "Sorry," Chuck said. "I didn't mean anything by it, it's just my first secret mission."

Sarah shrugged and smiled slowly. "Come on, we need to go, they don't have the manpower to search more than a couple streets over."

Chuck let himself be led, and soon enough, they found themselves in streets where the gaslamps were already lit, with electric lights glowing from most of the windows. The Cleveland nightlife wasn't a patch on Boston or New York, but there was a certain amount of obvious revelry going on at—Chuck wouldn't quite go so far as to call them 'saloons' but they had the general raucous mood which penny dreadfuls had put in his head as far as that went.

Sarah dragged him straight up the steps of a flophouse next to one such, slapped a bill on the counter in front of the night clerk and said "Room," in a tone of voice that brooked no nonsense. The sword hilt poking out over her right shoulder might have had something to do with the civility of their service. Nevertheless, the clerk slid a key across and stuffed the money in the till without uttering a word. Their room was on the second floor, and Chuck was afraid the stairs weren't up to the task of supporting both Sarah's and his weight. The floorboards creaked alarmingly under his boots, but Sarah paid it no mind, unlocking the door and shuffling aside so he could come through past her into the room. She immediately locked the door, and then produced a pair of wooden stops from her knapsack, driving them under the door with two sharp kicks of her boot-heel.

Chuck sank into a rickety chair and let his half of the contents of Sarah's trunk fall to the hardwood floor. His hands were shaking, and they wouldn't stop. "Chuck?" Sarah said softly. "Chuck, are you alright? Chuck!" She finally had to raise her voice, and his eyes snapped over to her.

"What?"

"Are you feeling quite alright?" Sarah said, "Only you're turning a little green."

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Sarah seemed to take this perfectly in stride. She stepped across the room, which of course only took her a single long graceful stride, and linked her fingers with his. "Come on then, Chuck, up you get. The bed is yours tonight."

Chuck glanced at the floor, coming a little bit out of his stupor. "I can't make you sleep on that... it hasn't been washed in—"

"I've slept on worse," Sarah insisted, shoving him toward the bed.

"But it's hardly—"

"But me no buts Charles Irving Bartowski," Sarah growled, and shoved him into the narrow bed. It was sized for two, but it hadn't been designed for a man the size of Chuck. His head hit the pillow and his feet hung off the end. "Just sleep it off, the shakes will be gone by morning," Sarah said.

"I don't think they'll ever go away," Chuck mumbled.

"Trust me," Sarah said.

"Of course," Chuck said absently into the pillow, and Sarah grinned.

When it seemed like Chuck wasn't going to wake up and protest the sleeping arrangements, Sarah grabbed her code-book from the knapsack and enciphered her first message back to the Secret Service since they'd fled Boston—God, had it only been—four days ago. It wasn't long at all for her to be out of touch with Montgomery and the official apparatus of the Secret Service, but it seemed like much longer.

Sarah frowned as she worked, searching out appropriate phrasing in the labyrinthine depths of _Moby Dick _for her message. A rather large part of her wished there wouldn't be any reply at all, and she would simply have to disappear with Chuck, for good. It was surprising, actually, how conflicted she was in that regard. When it was just her and Chuck talking, sometimes she forgot that she was even still _in _the Secret Service, and that wasn't good, despite how it made her feel. She needed to keep her mission in mind, granted keeping Chuck safe was an easy mission to keep focused on, she didn't often think of it as a mission any longer. It was just what she _wanted _to do anyway.

With her message ready to be planted via telegram in the Boston papers, Sarah paused, working out the cramp in her hand that she got sometimes when writing. She winced, not from the pain in her hand, but for an entirely different reason, holding the clear-text and her scratch paper absently. She couldn't just leave the potentially incriminating paper lying around, but judging by the even cadence of Chuck's breathing he was asleep or very nearly so, and he needed to get all the rest he could. Before tonight, Chuck's exposure to 'excitement' in the sense that Sarah knew it, had consisted mostly of short, sharply pointed violent engagements. Although it was counterintuitive, Sarah knew from experience, a long drawn out period of intense stress, such as when one decided to sneak into a warehouse and subdue a handful of Pinkerton detectives before disappearing into the night under cover of smokebombs was about the most draining thing anyone could go through. She wouldn't be surprised if he slept for fourteen hours straight.

Sarah searched both knapsacks in vain. He had their only supply of matches at the moment. Sarah briefly regretted putting the stops under the door, and let out a sigh. There was nothing for it, but to search his pockets for the book of matches, hopefully without waking him and necessitating an awkward conversation.

Sarah doffed her boots and padded across the room to the bed, leaning over carefully to scope out potential approaches to the pockets she needed to pilfer without waking him. She planted a knee and an elbow in the bedspread carefully next to him so she could roll clear of the bed if she lost her balance. He'd gone looking in his coat pockets back at the warehouse, hadn't he? She began her search there, in the easier-to-access exterior pockets, but without any luck. She furrowed her brow and carefully slipped a hand in the gap where his coat lay open, finding the seam of the interior pocket by feel. Chuck murmured something in his sleep that sounded suspiciously close to her name, and Sarah grinned while her fingers prodded. She could feel his heart beating, heat radiating from his chest into her fingers. Sarah left her hand inside his coat for a few moments longer than she needed to, once she failed to discover any sign of matches in the inside jacket-pocket.

She blushed slightly, debating for a moment whether she dared attempt searching his trouser pockets, when he stirred. "Sorry," Sarah whispered. "I didn't mean to wake y—" Sarah began, but he rolled in his sleep, one arm going around her waist, and she was so startled by the move that she overbalanced, letting Chuck roll her onto her back. He nuzzled closer to her, laying with his arm and shoulder across her torso and his head resting... her popped as he unconsciously nuzzled his cheek into her bosom.

Sarah froze, even held her breath as she fought the flames in her own cheeks in a battle of wills. There was no way to extricate herself without waking him, or at least, she didn't know it if there was, having little experience sharing sleeping arrangements with anyone. It was far from unpleasant, the way he was pressed against her, which just made her blush again, all her teasing of Chuck aside.

She swallowed and then froze again, praying that such a small movement wouldn't awaken him. There was no way out. Chuck shifted again, moving his head up away from dangerous territory—thank _God—_but his breath against the side of her neck was distracting in its own way. Sarah knew then that she was never going to fall asleep with him lying all but on top of her like that.

But as the stress of the successful mission bled away, in only a few more minutes, she drifted off as well, grinning faintly.

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: Next time... _the Cleveland Incident_, and maybe some Larkin/Tesla action if there's time.

This chapter is mostly just to resolve that cliffhanger from last time, and remind people that this story isn't dead. Reviews are always snapped up like mini-pizza-bites. Mmmm... pizza bites. Time to go to the 24-hour grocery store.

I'll get back to the, you know, the A-Plot when I have time to work on this story again. Given the fact that my thesis is set in the 1860s, and this story is in the 1890s, writing this story helps me work on my 'period setting' writing, so while _Chuck and Sarah vs Themselves_ might see fewer updates in the coming weeks moving into my thesis defense, _Frontier_ might actually see more updates than it has lately. But no promises.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: In this chapter: the _true_ reason Chuck blushes so much is finally revealed. And it's a doozy.

* * *

Chapter 19:

* * *

Chuck slowly drifted back to consciousness, nuzzling absently against the warm body currently pressed against his front while he lay on his side. He was only half awake, but a vague gnawing suspicion told him that if he opened his eyes the nice warm thing would disappear. The warm shape moved against him and made a sort of happy murmuring sound, and Chuck let out a long sigh. He kept his eyes closed and gingerly felt around with just his fingertips. Opening his eyes might break the spell. His fingers found soft skin and explored tenderly.

It was a hand, he realized through the haze of being only half-awake, and fought the impulse to open his eyes. The fingers of the hand tangled with his own, squeezing gently. Chuck felt a smile crease his lips. Long hair brushed his face. He risked opening his eyes. Slanting rays of sunlight made a dazzling carpet of interference patterns across the room, falling across Chuck and Sarah, suffusing the room with dappled golden light. Sarah's hair flared incandescent in the morning light and Chuck stopped breathing she was so beautiful.

Sarah swallowed a lump in her throat and stared back into him from inches away. They balanced on the edge for a while, bare indecision keeping them apart. Chuck took a breath, about to break the silence, suggest they disentangle themselves. Hopefully without embarrassing himself. She turned in his arms and grabbed him by the shirt and crushed her mouth to his. Chuck brushed her hair back behind her ear and ran his fingers into her golden locks. Sarah's hand slid around his neck, clutching a fistful of his shirt to stop him pulling away.

Not that he was going to try. Ever. Though, eventually, a part of his brain piped in, they were going to need to come up for air. She held tight to him, taking the lead, and pushing him onto his back. Then she pulled away. Chuck groaned in disappointment, but imagined it was a good idea to stop before they went any further than... Sarah seemed to disagree. She was merely shifting gears, surprising him with brief feather-light kisses along his jawline, working her way around to nibble his ear. Their hands linked and Sarah guided his hand up to the swell of her bosom. After a few seconds, Chuck realized where his hand was, and he flinched away as if burned, eyes wide as saucers, his face bright red.

Sarah laughed softly and straightened, sitting astride his hips. "Too fast?"

Chuck held his hands up between them as a flimsy barrier. Sarah clasped both of his hands to shove them out of the way before she plunged back down for another kiss.

Chuck wriggled backward away from her lips. "Ow," he said against her mouth, and Sarah frowned, eyebrows drawing together.

"What?" she said, "Are you okay?"

"Ow," Chuck said again. "Something is poking me... ow!" He shoved her unceremoniously off of him to one side and rubbed the sore spot in his side. Sarah made a disgruntled noise and puffed her hair out of her eyes. "What was that?"

Sarah sighed, and tapped the butt of the ivory handled revolver slung at her hip. The way they'd been pressed together, it had been digging into his kidney. She grinned ruefully and sat up again. "I suppose now we're going to have to have an awkward discussion about what just happened?" She wiped her thumb across her lips, and then flicked her tongue around the corner of her mouth.

Chuck pulled his eyes away from her lips and propped himself up on his elbows. "It seems likely," he mused.

Sarah sighed and sank her fingers into her hair. "Alright, let's talk then," she said, though she didn't seem to want to start.

"We've not even known each other for a week," Chuck said eventually. "This thing, us... it's really very sudden."

Sarah snorted. "I'm aware, though technically, it's three weeks for me. You were napping for two of them." she shrugged and curled up so she could loop her arms around her knees, resting her head and peering at him through a curtain of her hair. "We've talked about it before... Chuck, I—" she stopped and changed what she was going to say. "We're caught up in events, Chuck." She sighed again. "I don't know why, but ever since we met, I've felt it. I know you have too. We just... fit. And it may be sudden, but I don't think that fighting what we feel is doing us any favors."

Chuck nodded. "You're right... that's what I meant, I feel like I've known you my whole life, but..." he cocked his head and took a breath. He should just tell her.

Sarah grinned, "What about it?" she said encouragingly.

He winced. This was the difficult bit. "I think it might be a side-effect of seeing the future."

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "How so? Are you..." she trailed off, thinking it through, and coming to the inevitable conclusion. "You saw _our _future?"

"I think so."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "You think so. What in the hell does that mean?"

Chuck shrugged, at a loss how to explain. "When the machine exploded..."

"Have you remembered more of what happened?"

"Maybe."

"Chuck, could you just give me a straight answer here?" she said. "You've got the most exasperating tendency to hedge on everything."

"I'm sorry," Chuck said. "I'll keep that in mind. But I just..." he pressed one hand to his temple. "It's all too much, when I try to think about it, it feels like my brain will burst. Sometimes I confuse the fiction—our cover story where we're engaged— for what I've seen, or may have seen of the future.. It's all a jumble that clouds out everything else, and you're so beautiful I can't concentrate on keeping things separate. It's not fair to you."

Sarah smiled out one side of her mouth. "Did you hear me complaining?" Chuck pulled an exasperated expression and the smile grew across her lips. "I understand. Say your piece, Chuck."

He sat in thought for a long moment of silence. It wasn't an awkward silence, merely companionable as he looked inward. At last he seemed to gather his thoughts. "I don't think I saw the future for us, not in absolute terms. I may have seen possible futures. Maybe _all _of the possible futures. If that's the case it would explain a lot."

Sarah arched an eyebrow curiously. "Like what?"

"Well," Chuck said, stalling for time. "I don't like to say."

She scowled and punched him in the arm. "Tell me," she insisted.

Chuck rubbed the sore spot, and finally sighed. "We get married."

She grinned. "Well, you might at least _ask _first."

"This is what I'm talking about," Chuck said. "I've these half-remembered bits of possible futures in my head, but they all bleed into one another."

Sarah considered this, and laughed. "So, you're telling me you can't tell me our children's names. Good, I'd prefer it if _that_ at least remained a surprise."

"You're not taking this seriously," Chuck said. "Its more than that. I fear I don't know where the line is anymore. You said something earlier; you asked if you were moving too fast," he explained. "And that's just the problem. We _are_ moving too fast, but I can't seem to make myself care, or even remember. Not all the time, any rate. Sometimes I think we're moving to slow... sometimes when you kiss me I remember..." here he blushed again, all the way to his ears, and Sarah cocked her head curiously. What could he remember that had him blushing so, and that he couldn't even put a voice to it? His eyes met hers and a shock went through her at the fire in their rich chestnut depths. She swallowed. Oh... no wonder he blushed at the oddest times; maybe she should mitigate her teasing. Then again, if he _had _seen them get married in the future... maybe she needn't be as subtle about it.

"Well, why don't you let _me_ decide what's too fast for me?" Sarah said for lack of anything else to say. "And I'll do you the same courtesy."

"How can you be so calm about all of this," Chuck said. "Don't you see the implications?"

Sarah frowned at him. "Oh, I see. You think that because you saw the future you've been unconsciously shaping events so that the future you saw comes to pass, and that I, 'poor defenseless woman' that I am, am just powerless to resist."

Chuck crossed his arms. "Don't make fun," he said.

Sarah tossed her head. "Well, I suppose I'd be more upset, if I hadn't suspected we'd end up hitched from the moment I laid eyes on you," Sarah remarked with a grin.

Chuck opened his mouth, and found himself unable to bring forth any immediate response to this. Then pounding on the door interrupted his line of thought. He sat gape-mouthed for a moment. A man's voice came barely muffled through the door in a shout. "If you want the room for another night I'll have you pay up front, otherwise you've ten minutes to vacate!"

"To be continued," Sarah said, launching herself to her feet and checking her weapons. A thought occurred to her. "What happened to the matches?"

Chuck blinked, suffering a brief moment of emotional whiplash at the sudden change in topic. After a moment, he patted his pockets and produced his book of matches from the back pocket of his trousers. Sarah seemed oddly intent on his search, and when he arched an eyebrow, she flushed faintly. "Why do you need matches?"

Sarah snatched the matches and struck one as she strode to the tiny writing desk, plucking a scrap of paper and holding the corner to the flame. She turned the page to draw the flame along the edge and held the far corner until blue-yellow flames fanned up, chewing the parchment. At the last moment, she dropped the curled up, blackened remnant into the wastebin and stomped on the embers to put them out. She glanced at him and shrugged. "Covering our tracks," she explained. "Do you need breakfast first, or can we head straight to the telegraph station? If they're open yet." Sarah walked across to stick her head out the window and get an idea of the hour. "I do miss having a functional pocket-watch," she admitted.

Chuck cleared his throat and slid over to the side of the bed. "About that," he said, rooting through the knapsack. "Two nights ago, before we rode into Cleveland, I had a look at your watch."

"I broke it," Sarah said. "I thought I'd thrown it out."

Chuck shrugged. "Well, you did. Which I have to say was really quite silly of you. You do remember that I make my living repairing watches?" He found it at last and tugged a familiar brass watch out by the chain, holding it out to her. "I haven't had time to hammer out the dent, but I believe it does at least keep time once more."

She smiled, and Chuck blushed. Sarah bit her lip, every blush of his took on an entirely new light. If he remembered their wedding, might he also remember their wedding _night? _She just looked at him, meeting his eyes until the blush deepened all on its own, and her grin turned smug. Chuck groaned. "I never should have bloody told you that bit..." he sighed.

"Hopefully one of these days _I'll _have those sort of memories," she mused. Chuck looked scandalized, and she shrugged. "Its hardly fair you get to remember that sort of thing, when I must resort solely to my imagination." Chuck covered his ears.

"I'm not listening to this," he insisted, and she laughed. Chuck rolled his eyes. "Can we just go send this bloody telegraph of yours already? I need to get you in public where you'll make less a spectacle of me."

Sarah smiled sweetly. "No blush-worthy memories from public places then? I'm disappointed in my future-self."

Chuck's eyes went blank for a moment, he was obviously suffering an episode, where his memories from the future were intruding. Sarah grinned as the fit subsided and he went absolutely _crimson._ He blinked and spotted her expression, and coughed into his fist in an attempt to cover his embarrassment. Sarah wasn't finished though. Her grin grew wicked. "Hmm... I dare say, as representative of the Secret Service, I should hear the contents of that particular glimpse of the future, Mr. Bartowski. Please, spare me no details. It could be important. For the Nation's safety and security, be as explicit as you can."

Chuck coughed again, and shook his head. "You're trying to make me blush myself to death, and it won't work."

Sarah shrugged. "We'll see. It's early days yet."

Chuck groaned. He'd been afraid she'd say something like that.

* * *

The walk to the telegraph office was blessedly free of more teasing; Chuck supposed Sarah was becoming a good judge of just how far she could push things despite the brevity of their acquaintance. He didn't know whether he should be surprised or not, even when he'd believed her name was Sandra Bower and she was to be investing in his father's experiments, she'd struck him as extremely insightful and intelligent. His subsequent discovery that she was a government agent hadn't gone very far to contradict his initial impression, and he seemed to have her mostly undivided attention for long periods of time lately. At the moment, however, the crowds of passersby, their fellow pedestrians seemed to occupy her thoughts.

Finally Chuck broke the silence. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Sarah said, but not very convincingly.

"I'm sorry I said anything, about... what I saw," Chuck ventured. "It must seem like you've lost any choice in the matter, and I don't know how that would make me feel if some woman I just met a week ago told me with that level of certainty that we'd be married."

"Chuck," Sarah said, stopping and planting her fists on her hips and skewering him in place with a glare. "I wasn't just saying it to get the last word earlier; it was the truth. I was about seventy percent convinced I was going to marry you the moment I laid eyes on you, and nothing you've said or done since has sent me screaming for the hills, so just _cork it_. We've got work to do." Chuck was speechless for the rest of the walk to the telegraph office, and sat mutely while Sarah paid for the message to be sent and signed a money transfer for them to send to the newspaper.

It was nearly ten minutes later when he found his voice again; they were waiting for a streetcar, but Sarah hadn't said where they were going just yet, still, that wasn't what he wanted to ask. "Seventy percent?" Chuck said. "That's an astoundingly specific number. How was I so convincing? I seem to recall a large amount of stammering and the like on my part during our first meeting."

Sarah looped her arm through his and leaned her head against his shoulder so she could whisper and be heard over the bustle of the street. No one save Chuck could possibly have heard her. "I never was a great believer in love at first sight," she said softly. "But it was your eyes that first captivated me, and then when I told you I wasn't married, the way you nearly swallowed your tongue was quite endearing. Still, you had—have, I should say— the kindest eyes I've ever seen. It marks you, Chuck, in a way I don't believe you even know. You're a better man than any I've ever met, and I could see that almost from the moment we met."

"Still," Chuck said. "Seventy percent is awfully specific, you must admit."

Sarah rolled her eyes at him; although Chuck had no way of knowing this, with her resting her head on his shoulder, he was still sure it had happened just the same. "I was there under orders; if you were secretly working for the Ring, kind eyes or no, I might have been forced to kill you." Chuck tensed, before she went on. "Relax, I didn't rate that as very likely once I got a good look at you. I've been told I'm an excellent judge of character. Maybe one in ten chance, I supposed you were in the Ring. I rated it another ten or fifteen percent that you would already be married, or engaged, since you weren't wearing a wedding band. Then take into account the possibility you and Mr. Larkin were... involved."

Chuck sputtered. "What! He's like a brother to me."

Sarah ignored the outburst. "Of course, I didn't rate that very likely, from the way you looked at _me_, but I'm speaking here of my initial assessment, and however unlikely, I had to allow for... unexpected proclivities. I won't bore you with the way my calculations have shifted since then, but yes... about seventy percent chances I could find myself married to you, initially. And this is before I even got to know you, mind. When you consider the way we were thrust together, fighting a shadow conspiracy together, no one to trust but each other, it's hardly a surprising revelation on your part."

Chuck took this as calmly as he could. Sarah was always full of surprises; it was, he reflected, the only predictable thing about her. He cleared his throat. "I see," he said. "If you don't mind my saying so, that's a remarkable amount of mental arithmetic to do on your first meeting with someone." Sarah laughed softly. "It's just training. It goes on sort of subliminally most of the time, unless something out of the ordinary happens. Like meeting you. Threat assessment run wild, you might say. Though I doubt my... teacher ever thought I'd put it to use it calculating the odds of a marriage proposal."

The streetcar pulled up, which Chuck used to change the subject. "Do you know where we're going?" Chuck said as they took one of any number of empty seats. The car was a horse-drawn omnibus, not a proper electrified streetcar, as it would have been in Boston, and the smell of horseflesh and manure seemed to hamper their business to an extent.

Sarah plopped herself down on the seat next to him and nudged him with her shoulder. "Of course. A Jeweler. I need an engagement ring."

Chuck blinked. "But I haven't asked you yet," he said softly. Few were close enough to hear, but he made the effort anyway.

Sarah grinned. "No," she said with an eyebrow pointedly arched. "You haven't. This is for our cover," she explained. "If you show up at your sister's house in New Orleans with a supposed fiance in tow, I'm sure she'd be suspicious if I don't have a ring."

"Ah," Chuck said. He'd somehow blurred the lines between cover and reality. He glanced at Sarah, who gave him an impish smile. Yes, silly mistake, that. How _could _he have done such a thing...

* * *

Armed with a modest ring, which had eaten surprisingly lightly into their traveling funds, Sarah dragged Chuck to the trainyards. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" Chuck asked. "Only the last time we took a train we ended having to shoot it out with Pinkerton Detectives."

Sarah nodded. "You're quite right," she said. "But this time we won't be buying tickets, or visiting dining cars."

Chuck scratched his head, "Then how are we going to get on the train?"

"Chuck?" Sarah said, pointing over her shoulder with her thumb. "That freight train heading South will most likely get us to St. Louis. From there we can take a ship down to New Orleans. Come on!" And she was off at a run, her long legs eating up the distance as she ran alongside the train. Chuck was a few moments of shocked stillness behind her, before he hitched his knapsack down more securely and followed her at a sprint.

Sarah hoisted herself into the open doors of a freight car with merely a brief grunt of effort, and stood peering out, shouting encouragement to him as he loped to catch up. It had been years since his days on the rowing team at Harvard, and he wasn't in top shape anymore, blowing hard in an effort to keep pace with the train as it accelerated. Sarah leaned out and held out her hand to him.

Chuck gasped for breath and grabbed her hand. She tugged him half-off his feet and he nearly fell under the wheels of the train-car. He managed to get one foot planted on the bottom of the door though, the other dangling precariously. Sarah grabbed on with both hands, hauling back with all her weight. Chuck found a handhold on the door to steady himself and then he shot up into the car. Sarah pitched over backward and he landed atop her, blasting the air from her lungs. After a moment, he pushed himself up off her, blushing.

When she had her breath back, Sarah laughed. "Wasn't that bracing?"

Chuck shook his head. "You are a _crazy woman_."

She merely arched an eyebrow. "You're the one thinks he sees the future."

He scowled. "That's hardly a fair representation of the facts."

Sarah shrugged and stuck her tongue out at him, then just as he let his guard down, she pounced him onto his back and kissed him about as soundly as he'd ever been kissed.

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: The next chapter should catch back up to and then incorporate my one-shot, _Sarah vs the Frontier_. I suppose at some point I'll have to touch base with Bryce, Tesla, Roan, and what the Ring is up to... so there can actually be a plot, and stuff?


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: A large portion of this chapter will be familiar to those of you who read _Sarah vs the Frontier, _but it's not (just) a direct copy/paste of that story. There is new material this chapter, with the reprint forming the latter half of the chapter. Sorry it took so long, but writer's block is a fickle mistress.

* * *

Chapter 20:

* * *

When Chuck and Sarah finally came up for air, their train was well outside the city. The breeze and the slow rocking of the freight car conspired to put him to sleep, and they spent most of the ride in companionable silence, mostly because they had to shout over the roar of the wheels and the rush of wind. The train made occasional stops, and Sarah insisted they hide behind some crates, in case inspectors came through. This of course inevitably lead to trouble, the two of them squeezed into a tight space like that, but Chuck came through the ordeal well—he only feared he was going to blush himself to death once—which seemed like something of a record, in the weeks since he'd met Sarah.

"Psst," a voice whispered harshly, coupled with violent shaking. Chuck's eyes shot open. He'd been dozing again, it was late afternoon, on their second day. The train had stopped, and he was surprised he hadn't noticed. Usually when the train stopped, he woke up all by himself, not needing Sarah to wake him. "We're here."

Chuck frowned up at her muzzily. "New Orleans, already?"

Sarah laughed softly and tousled his hair. "No. We're still days away from Lousiana, Chuck. We're here: St. Louis."

"Oh," he shrugged. "Wha's in St. Louis?"

Sarah poinked him in the side of the head. "The Mississippi river, smart guy. Which will take us to New Orleans via river boat."

"Ah," Chuck said.

Sarah rolled her eyes. "What's with the one word responses?"

"Sorry," he said. "My brain needs fuel. There wouldn't happen to be any chance of coffee, would there?"

Sarah shook her head incredulously, and pushed off of his chest with both hands, then hauled him to his feet. They stood very close to one another for a long drawn out moment. "Probably not."

"Hey!" he heard someone shout. "What are you doing in there!"

"Crap," Sarah growled, pushing Chuck toward the sliding door on the far side of the car from the voice. "Move it, Chuck!"

"I'll shoot!" The voice exclaimed.

"What!" Chuck sputtered. "For being a stow-awa-aaaaay!" He finished in a long drawn out bellow, after Sarah shoved him unceremoniously from the railcar. "Ow," he growled. Sarah alighted gracefully next to him and extended a hand down for him. "You just like having to help me up, don't you?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "No time for banter, Chuck. Run!"

"You won't get away from me!" The still faceless voice shouted. Sarah rolled her eyes.

"Yes we will!" She shouted back and shoved Chuck between two railcars. "Go," she hissed. "Head for the fenceline. I'll be right behind you."  
"What!" Chuck said over his shoulder, "Why aren't you coming with me?"

Sarah nudged him in the back with the toe of her boot. "Don't back-talk! Go!" She puffed her bangs out of her face in exasperation and dropped to the ground, rolling under a nearby railcar and crawling back the way they'd come on her elbows.

"Where'd you go?" the voice shouted. And Sarah rolled her eyes. Nice job constantly broadcasting your position, smart-stuff. Chuck wasn't much better, but now that they were split up, she should be able to work her way around and get behind the man. He probably wasn't Ring, but it paid to be cautious. Sarah closed her eyes and put her ear to the ground, going through a quick meditation exercise. It wasn't easy, but with intense concentration, which she couldn't seem to manage with Chuck around, she could isolate the man's footprints. Luckily there weren't any other trains in motion at the moment. Chuck's feet were moving off to the south, and the voice's feet were coming fast. She pushed herself up on her elbows and half-rolled, snapping her legs out from under the railcar.  
"Damnation!" a familiar voice cried out, a shotgun clattering to the dirt ahead of him. Sarah grabbed the edge of the railcar above her and hauled herself out the rest of the way, coming to her feet smoothly. The owner of the voice was a wizened old man, thin as a rail with an unruly wisp of graying hair. Sarah darted forward and kicked the shotgun away from his probing fingers. She shook her head in wonderment.

"You were just going to shoot us?"

The old man gasped, likely shocked to find that she was a woman, and she rolled her eyes. Typical. He shook his head. "Course not, uh... miss. Jes get tired of thieves coming in the trainyard and makin' off with goods."

"We didn't steal anything except a train-ride," Sarah said, and fished a bill from her vest pocket and crumpled it up and dropped it in the dirt in front of the old man. "Which that should more than cover." She shifted her foot around and popped the shotgun up into her grasp. "Should also buy you a new one of these, so don't try to follow me."

She made a quick noose out of a leather cord from her satchel and looped it around the man's hands. It wasn't much, and he should be able to get free before too long. Sarah tipped an imaginary hat at the man and slipped off in pursuit of Chuck.

Sarah caught up to him at the fence, where Chuck was anxiously awaiting her arrival, hiding ineffectually behind an empty crate alone the fence-line. He was too big, and the crate too small, but it was better than nothing, she mused.

"Are you okay?" Chuck asked, and reached out to brush dirt off her shoulder. "You're covered in dirt."

"I'm fine," Sarah said, dusting herself off surreptitiously. "Didn't want to leave somebody behind us if he might have a weapon," she explained, hefting the shotgun.

Chuck's eyes widened. "I was worried."

Sarah shook her head. "You know I've been taking care of myself for quite some time, yes?"

Chuck shrugged. "I can't worry?"

She sighed, much put-upon. "I'm supposed to protect you, remember, not the other way around. You let me do the worrying." Sarah made a stirrup out of her hands. "Here, let me give you a leg up over the fence."

"I should help you over the fence," Chuck protested.

Sarah rolled her eyes at him, in what he was coming to realize was strained forebearance. "I've climbed up entire buildings, without so much as a rope, let alone somebody to boost me up. Quit trying to be so darn chivalrous all the time, it's actually starting to lose its charm." Chuck looked hurt, and Sarah sighed. "Fine," she said and tossed her satchel over the fence. "I'll humor you this _one_ time."

* * *

They found a department store without incident and purchased a new traveling trunk without incident. Then Sarah hired a coach to take them to the river where they booked passage south on the next ship. It was a slow boat, with a paddle wheel, not like the newer steamships with the much large boilers and a faster top speed. She explained the choice to Chuck pre-emptively, as it was something she strongly suspected him to inquire about. The faster the ship, the more like the Ring would expect them to use it, just from their own biases in that regard. The Ring had mind-boggling resources, when it came down to it, but they weren't infinite. Even if they had completely coopted the Pinkerton Detective Agency into their ranks, as was becoming more likely, there was a limit to their reach. They might technically have the means to put an agent on every ship leaving St. Louis in a day, but not every day, and not for very long. Sheer logistics on such an operation would be brutal. Sarah imagined the paperwork alone would be nearly impossible to keep up with after any length of time at all, so she figured most ships would _probably_ be safe, but still, paranoia seemed to have leeched into her bones after the run in with the Ring agent nurse in Chuck's supposedly secure hospital facility.

The boat lurched out into the water as the sun was setting over St. Louis and Chuck looked a little green in the torchlight. "You okay?" She asked.

"Just a little sea-sick."

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "Don't you mean 'river-sick'," she quipped, and he scowled. Sarah laughed. "Sorry," she whispered and looped an arm through his. She started to rest her head on his shoulder, but Chuck pulled away and leaned over the railing.

Her eyes widened and she patted him on the back once he was done emptying his stomach. "It'll be better when we get belowdecks," she promised.

Chuck frowned at her doubtfully, but let her lead the way. He sighed, when the door revealed a single narrow bed. "This time, I insist you take the bed," Chuck said. "I'm putting my foot down."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "I guess technically it is my turn," she allowed.

"Good," he said. "I was almost expecting to have to fight you for the floor."

Sarah grinned, watching him set up a pallet on the floor. Once he was mostly situated, she grinned. "You know, we _could_ share—" she never got any further before Chuck shook his head vehemently. "It's not like we haven't shared a bed before," She went on despite his continued head shaking.

"That's different, you were sewn in a sack, or I was unconscious the whole time."

She shrugged. "I know. I was just teasing." She sat heavily on the bed and he eyed her warily. Sarah chewed her lip. She needed to do something about that wariness. "I want to tell you about... me."

Chuck frowned a little at first, but then his standard huge grin split his face, and she found herself smiling as well. It wasn't a story she told often, or at all, really, but he deserved to hear it. Especially if that future-flash of his about them eventually winding up married was accurate. Sarah tugged her boots off and winced, making fists with her toes and the knuckles crackling. She blushed and hauled the covers up to her chin, still fully clothed. This time she at least remembered to set her pistols aside.

"How should I start, then? You seem to have more experience telling tales than I do. I don't really like to talk so much if I can help it," Sarah said. "Comes from upbringing, I guess."

"Tell me about your family?"

"I suppose that's fair. I already know all about yours," Sarah shrugged one shoulder, looking down at him from the single bed in their sleeping cabin. "My daddy was... well, I guess he was a snake oil salesman, although he didn't call it that."

"I'd venture not," Chuck said, resting his head on his arm so he could look at her from the pallet he'd made up on the floor from spare blankets.

"Ha. No, Jack Burton's Patent Medicine. Guaranteed to cure what ails you. And if you had something he hadn't heard of, take a double dose and he'd add it to the list," Sarah smiled sadly. "We moved around a lot, far back as I can remember. My mother took sick when I was real little. Consumption. I don't even think she was cold before we left town. I don't know what little town she's buried in. We stuck around 'cause of her illness longer than we'd ever stayed anywhere, but I can't remember the name.

All I remember of her is a vague image of her face. My dad had a picture, an old daggeurotype he paid somebody to take of her, and that's how I remember her. Black and White and stiff as a board. I lost it in a fire when I was..." She shrugged. "Nineteen I think? Jumpin' ahead a little. I don't really know where I'm from. We moved so much, never standing still long enough for anyone to cotton on that daddy was just selling laudanum prettied up with some spices and cheap whiskey. But from what I remember, and what I know about accents now? I'd say my father was from Tennessee, or maybe the really northern bits of Mississippi."

Anyway, after momma died, it was just me and him."

"So, your last name's Burton?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Probably not," she shrugged. "Burton was the name he was using when he died, so that's how I think of him. But my real family name? Your guess is as good mine. I like Walker. It's got sentimental value."

"I didn't mean to interrupt. You don't need to tell me anymore if you don't want to."

"Well, since I told you what my dad did," she mused. "I guess you know how he died."

"Somebody strung him up?"

Sarah nodded sadly. "I was eight, I think?"

"I'm sorry."

She snorted. "You didn't do it," she said, then propped herself up on her elbow and arched an eyebrow, grinning. "You didn't, did you?"

Chuck shook his head, and laughed. "No. I would have been about the same age as you."

"After that, I was on my own," Sarah said, matter-of-fact. "For a while anyway. Nobody wanted to take in the daughter of some huckster the town fathers had studiously ignored being lynched. I ended up eating out of garbage piles, snatching scraps from the dogs.

"My god, Sarah..." he said. "You don't have to tell me all this."

"Shh..." she said, reached down and put her finger to his lips. "I want to. That didn't last long, I don't think. I wasn't too careful about what day of the week it was, except I knew when it was Sunday. The whole town would come out in their fancy clothes. I tried to go once, and they wouldn't let me in. Caused a bit of a fuss, so I haven't bothered since. Finally one of the 'good Christian women' of the town drove me out with a broom, calling me all kinds of nonsense, demon and so forth. Most like because I didn't go to church," she sighed. "It stung then, but now I just find her and anyone like her... silly."

"So, I hid in a culvert until she was leaving. Followed her home and stole all the food I could stuff in a flour-sack, stole a butcher knife and hoofed it. It was only a week up to Springfield. I was in Missouri back then." Chuck smiled a touch. It sounded a little like she was falling back into a Missouri drawl. It was endearing, not that he could afford to be any more enamored of her than he was.

"I was just a little twig of a thing then, and it was mostly bread. Good food for walking," Sarah paused. "The nights were the worst. I didn't have any matches, or a flint or anything. I remembered my dad had talked about how Indians made a firebow, and I tried that. But I just got blisters on my hands. So I took little naps in the day when it was hottest, and I walked most nights. It was pretty spooky for a little girl by herself in the wilderness. I practiced throwing that butcher's knife as I walked, and before I knew it, there I was. Springfield, Missouri.

I was in town all of two hours when some old bat from a temperance union or some such scooped me up and dragged me to an orphanage. Probably saved my life, but she took my knife, and my bag of food. And at the time I was mad as hell. The orphanage wasn't any real treat either. They never are. But there was this one boy, older. Maybe fourteen or fifteen. He was trouble. The other girls told me to be careful. Word was he'd cornered a couple of the older girls and... well, lets just say he didn't give them flowers first."

"Oh, no. Sarah, I'm sorry."

"What for?" she said, with a grin, "When he tried it on me. I punted him good and proper in his unmentionables. I heard him howling for days up in the boys' dorm from the box. Never did find out what happened to him after that."

"The box?"

"Oh, its where they used to put me for fighting, or cursing, or spitting, or sneaking chewing tobacco out of Dr. Stevens' bag when he came to check on us kids, or pretending I was Calamity Jane.* That one they really didn't like. But I was used to it by then. Stupid little cell made out of an old chicken-coop out back," Sarah laid back like she was remembering a triumph. "That time, I was a hero to the other girls. They snuck me sweetcakes and rock candy from the general store. I was still in there when Soke Hiraku and mamma Mitsuko came through."  
"Who?"

"My foster parents," Sarah explained. "It was a good day. Mrs. Dunfield, the woman who ran the place was all in a tizzy, trying to keep them out. I heard the commotion before they ever came in the door. Mrs. Dunfield was another one of these 'good Christian ladies' and she just couldn't abide a nice old Japanese couple looking to adopt a white girl. I mean, okay. I wasn't too thrilled with the prospect at first either, but I was maybe nine, and my upbringing hadn't exactly been filled with racial harmony, in the border states like that, right after the war."

"But, it was still funny, to see the pair of them. I was near on five feet myself by then and still growing like a weed, gangly as all get out. And they were maybe a couple inches on me either one. Mrs. Dunfield was a huge, horrible ol' harridan and Soke Hiraku just walked right over her. She could never even tell how he did it, but she'd keep putting herself between him and someplace he'd want to go, and then he'd be there and she'd be scratching her head."

"Sounds familiar," Chuck said. "You're everywhere at once too when you feel like it."

Sarah laughed softly and tsked at him. "I'm telling a story, Chuck. Anyway, he probably ran her all over the orphanage before she came to show me to him. It was just something about him, a glint of childlike innocence in his eyes. I took an instant shine to him. To both of them really. He and mamma Mitsuko sat right in the dirt outside the box and talked through the two-by-four boards they'd had to nail to the thing to keep me in. I remember this part like it was yesterday.

Here was this funny old japanese man. Oldest person I think I'd ever seen back then, sitting down in the dirt like it was nothing. And spry as a jackrabbit. His wife had some trouble, not as limber anymore I guess, but she sat and offered me a pair of Osagi. That's a kind of Japanese sweet," Sarah went on. "It's a ball of rice, with... well it depends. The one she gave me was walnuts and maybe some maple syrup. I've got the recipe in my kit somewhere," she said pointing to her traveling trunk. "Anyway, they've pretty much won me over with just that right there, but Soke Hikaru he says—"

"Why do you use two names like that for him?"

"Soke's not his name, Chuck. Its his title."

"Oh. What's it mean, then?"

"Grandmaster," she said, and Chuck winced into one of his episodes. "Are you alright, Chuck?"

He was humming a tune Sarah didn't know,** but he snapped out of it after a moment. "Sorry, not really relevant, or... yeah. I'll keep this one to myself."

Sarah shrugged, "Anyway. You want me to tell this story or not?"

"I like hearing you talk about yourself. If you want to tell it, I'll listen."

"Thanks," she said. "Are you going to keep interrupting?"

Chuck mimed locking his mouth and throwing away the key. Sarah snorted. "Okay. This funny little Japanese man sits down next to 'the box' and he says. 'How did you come to be here, joji?'" Chuck arched an eyebrow and pointed to his locked-shut mouth and shrugged helplessly. "I'll explain the Japanese words later. I didn't know what they meant back then either, in fact it's part of the story. Relax. So I said back, 'That's not my name, what's that mean anyway?' and he just shrugs and says, 'I asked you first.'" Sarah's laugh was infectious. "I couldn't hardly argue with that, could I? I told him I walked.

His English was good, but he still had a bit of a funny accent, at least to little ten year old hellion me, and I giggled a little.

"You? Giggled? I'd liked to have seen that," Chuck said.

Sarah grinned and went on. "'You walked into a cage?' he asked, and looked over at his wife, like he had scored a point. I shrugged and said, 'Yep. I did what they said I did this time, and I don't mind it in here anymore.' They turned to each other and talked in Japanese for a while, and then he asked me, how I came to the orphanage, and I told him I walked. I told him what I told you, about my dad, and how I lived on my own in the streets for however long that was, and I showed them my little picture of my mom. They exchanged these looks, like I didn't know what at the time. In hindsight I'd say they were proud of me. But I didn't know how to read them yet. Soke Hiraku and Mitsuko were pretty good at hiding their feelings in public. In Japan its just good manners, to keep everything bottled up if you're not in your own home. Finally he got this serious look on his face and asked, 'You did what they say you did? You kicked this boy in his chinchin?' I crossed my arms and nodded, proud as can be. I could figure out what chinchin meant all by myself. Little kid names for things like that all have the same sound, no matter what the language. 'He tried to cut fresh with me,' I said, like I knew what I was talking about. They laughed a little about that, and off they went. Half an hour later, Mrs. Dunfield signed me over to them, and glad to be rid of me, I think.

"Do you speak Japanese, then?"

"And Russian, French, German, Spanish," Sarah said, listing them off on her fingers with no sign of slowing down.

"Okay, I get it," Chuck said. "You're amazing, I don't need the whole list. I knew you were amazing before."

"Aw..." Sarah said. "You're sweet. I'm still making you sleep on the floor."

Chuck laughed. "_I'm_ making me sleep on the floor. Even if you offered, I'm staying right here. It wouldn't be right."

Sarah grinned. "You want me to finish my story?"

"Yes, please," Chuck said. "Tell me a bedtime story."

Sarah shook her head, still grinning. "Okay, we'll move forward a ways. They took me in, raised me like I was theirs. Joji kenkyakuka, he used to call me. Baby-girl good walker. Or fencer... sometimes it means that too. Depends on the context. I think he meant it both ways. Like I said, he was a little... funny. This part takes some explaining, so bear with me. In Japan, there's schools that teach fighting, Dojos. But they all teach different variations, different styles, some with weapons, some just with your bare hands. Soke is the title for kind of the president of each school. It's also the word for head of household, kind of like Pater familius. And they keep track of all this on enormous great scrolls in Edo, where the Emperor lives."

"So that's where you learned to fight," Chuck said. "From your adoptive father."

Sarah pouted. "You jumped ahead of my story," then her eyes narrowed. "You didn't remember the future of this conversation, did you?" Sarah asked accusingly.

"No, its a logical deduction."

Sarah grunted. "Alright. This time. You're right. Soke Hiraku trained me that whole time, from when I was ten until..." she stopped briefly, skirting around an uncomfortable topic. "The other thing they keep track of in those scrolls is the lineage, where the title of Soke is handed down, from one grandmaster to the next. In some schools, its along family lines, father to son. That sort of thing... only Soke Hiraku and Mitsuko couldn't have any children. Though not for lack of trying." Sarah gave a theatrical shudder. "So, when they adopted me, it was sort of a killing two birds with one stone kind of a deal."

"Huh."

"What?" Sarah demanded. "You seem upset."

"Not upset, it just seems weird. Japan's pretty insular, from what I hear. I wouldn't think most Japanese would want to pass on a legacy like that to someone..."

"Blond?" Sarah grinned. "Like I said. He was a little... funny," Sarah folded her hands over her stomach. "That's probably why they came to America anyway. They didn't like to talk about it, but I got the feeling that there was trouble for them, back in Koka province. He never treated anybody any different than anybody else, man or woman, black, white, indian, Japanese, all the same to him, until you open your mouth. Because he didn't suffer fools, and as far as he was concerned judging anybody based on where they were born, or what they looked like, that was the height of foolishness. I was about eighteen or nineteen when..." She faltered there and Chuck frowned, trying to figure out a way to cheer her up.

"So should I call you Soke Walker?"

"Only if you want to learn how to fight from me," but there was something behind the glib reply Chuck didn't want to pick at.

"I thought you'd never ask," he said to keep things light.

She smiled. "I'll take it under advisement."

"So what style do you use?"

"It's a secret."

"Come on."

"Those are the rules. I can't tell you unless I decide to teach you. And I'm not convinced I should. You come on, Chuck. Respect six hundred years of tradition."

"Maybe if I think real hard, I can see a possible future where you _do_ teach me and figure it out myself. Ow!" Chuck said, grabbing for her hand, but Sarah was quicker than him and back on the bed after rapping him on the head, very hard, with her knuckles. He rubbed the sore spot. "What was that for?"

"Looking into the future for things like that is cheating."

"Okay," Chuck said. "Listen, Sarah. If you don't want to talk about it that's fine. Don't think I'm pressuring you."

"Talk about what?"

"How Hiraku and Mitsuko died."

"How did you know that! Did you see into the future of our conversation again? That is all kinds of unnerving when you do that! I asked you to stop."

"Deductive reasoning again, no foresight. I promise."

Sarah huffed her hair out of her eyes. "I'll tell you."

"You don't have to, Sarah. Really, I don't mind. I know this is all really personal stuff, and you don't have to tell me any of it."

"It was eight years ago, the summer of '83. That trouble I told you about that I thought Soke and Mamma Mitsuko were running from. It found us. There were so many of them, all in black pajamas and their faces covered. They killed mamma Mitsuko before I even knew what was happening. Soke Hiraku gave me the lineage scrolls and told me to run," she paused to swallow back tears at the memories. "He said now I was Soke, that he could teach me nothing more. Because I only had one lesson left to learn, that I would know it when it happened. And so I ran. Three of them fell on me as I rounded the corner at the end of the block."

Chuck reached up and put his hand over hers. Sarah laced her fingers through his. "I killed them, with my bare hands. It was so easy. That was the last lesson. Life is a fragile, delicate, precious thing, and its so easy to destroy. I never felt so powerful and so awful in my life, all at the same time. I wanted to throw up. When I went back to look for Soke Hiraku the next day, all I found were ashes. I managed to salvage a couple things from the fire. Mamma Mitsuko's osagi recipe, some other stuff."

Sarah wiped her eyes. "After that, I wandered for a while. I'd learned to do pretty much everything anyone could ever need to survive, by then, carpentry, fishing, trapping, how to fight, how to shoot, hunt, track people through wilderness. How to talk my way out of almost anything. I'm remarkably self sufficient."

"And modest, don't forget modest," Chuck said. Sarah glared at him, but she couldn't hold it and grinned as she continued her story. He blinked. He'd called Bryce out similarly, hadn't he?

"But I didn't really know anyone except Soke Hiraku and mamma Mitsuko anymore. They were nice and all, but you were right about insular, before. Mostly everyone in town avoided the old Japanese couple with the awkward blond kid, until the boys started sniffing around when I was seventeen. They couldn't deal with Soke Hiraku very well, so I never really got close to anyone who wasn't family. I practically had to re-learn English as I wandered. I tried to go to college, but I didn't have the money for it."

"How'd you wind up in the Secret Service?"

"Six years ago I was wandering around New York, when I uncovered a plot to assassinate President Cleveland, and blow up the New York Stock Exchange. I killed four members of the Fulcrum Gang when they spotted me snooping around and tried to torture who I was working for out of me. I was still looking around their hideout trying to read their enciphered orders from the Ring to figure out who _they_ were working for, when Roan Montgomery and Craig and Laura Turner busted in. There was a little misunderstanding, but it worked itself out before anyone did anything too rash. Roan hired me the same day, and Laura put me through her version of etiquette school. The end."

"Leaving out all the cool missions and stuff you've done with the Secret Service..."

"Well, of course. Those are classified," she stuck out her tongue. "You don't need to know. Now go to sleep. Tomorrow's a long day of trying not to get seasick and lose your breakfast over the side of the steamship. Again."

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

Notes:

*Calamity Jane was born in 1852, so she's twelve years older than Sarah in this story (and Chuck Vs. the Frontier), and was a young woman making a name for herself when Sarah was nine-or-ten. Jane wasn't famous until at least a couple years later, so the timeline is probably a little off, but Annie Oakley is only four years older than Sarah. That definitely wouldn't work.

**The tune Chuck hums here is _White Lines_ by Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five. If you've heard the song, he's humming the chorus. If not, well then, you were obviously not alive in the Eighties. That or you're a square. :-P

* * *

A/N: I'm probably going to delete 'Sarah vs. the frontier as its own separate story, considering we've finally caught up to where it falls in the Frontier continuity, and it is now subsumed into the larger narrative as originally intended. Is there some way to transfer reviews? Probably not, oh well. Still, I'd appreciate some reviews, if just to know that people are still reading this story.


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck, I don't own the 19th century. I'm taking time out of my busy schedule of trying to finish my Master's thesis on time, to get this chapter out to you.

* * *

Chapter 21:

* * *

Sarah found Chuck at the rail again when she roused herself. She was surprised she hadn't heard him get up, considering the usual lightness of her slumber, but she chalked it up to how comfortable she felt around him. Sarah didn't know exactly what to make of that notion, though. It was a conundrum, certainly; if she was too comfortable, she might miss a threat to herself or Chuck, but she couldn't just flip a switch and _become _uncomfortable around him. When she was around him, she was more fully herself than she remembered being in a long time, since before her foster parents had died.

She shook her head at the state she found Chuck in, half bent over the railing and still looking more green than a healthy pink. "Didn't you mention being on the rowing team at Harvard?" Sarah said. "I swear I remember you saying..."

Chuck nodded and swiped a hand across his mouth and hauled himself upright. "I was..." he said. "It's different when I'm an active participant in making the boat go. I had control, at least partially so I knew what the thing was going to do at any given moment, this monstrosity..." Chuck glared vaguely around their paddlewheel steamboat. "If a boat could waddle, that's what this would be called instead. A waddleboat."

Sarah grinned, and shrugged. "Whatever," she said. "Did you sleep alright?"

"Yes," Chuck said. "Good but not great." His eyes winced shut as the ship lurched through a current of some kind. The wood under Sarah's feet shifted, and she shifted unconsciously to keep her balance.

"Did it help being below decks, not having to see the shore moving by?" Sarah asked, but didn't give him time to answer. "There's a poker game forming up, and we could try our luck. At least it would get your mind off the ships 'waddling'."

Chuck frowned. 'What if we lose our money?" he retorted, "I don't think gambling is a good idea."

Sarah grinned and flicked a card out of nowhere, spinning it through her fingers in a flourish. "It's not gambling how I do it," she said.

Chuck grabbed the card out of her hand and leaned in, whispering even though no one was around to hear. "Cheating at cards? Sarah are you trying to get us killed?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "No cheating," she agreed. "I don't have to. It's really mostly about math and reading people when it comes down to it. I'll look for tells, you do the math on the odds. See? A match made in heaven."

Chuck snorted. "Really."

"Really," Sarah nodded earnestly. "Speaking of which, I meant to talk to you this morning, but you'd already left."

Chuck eyed her warily. "What about?"

She held her hand up and turned the diamond on her ring finger with her thumb. "This. When we get to New Orleans, I think we should get wedding rings before we visit your sister."

Chuck shook his head vehemently. "You don't know Ellie. I show up with a wife in tow, it will be the End Times."

Sarah wrinkled her brow. "Why? Wouldn't she be happy for you?"

Chuck shrugged. "Oh, _eventually_, sure. But if we show up saying we're married, that would mean that I had a wedding _without her,_ which... let's just say that would be a bad idea."

The wind blew Sarah's hair every which way, and she clawed it back into place. "Hmm... I guess I see your point."

But Chuck was shaking his head as it all came into focus. "Oh, God, I didn't think this through. If we show up engaged..." he closed his eyes tightly. "Please let that not be what that flash meant."

"Chuck," Sarah said harshly, clamping a hand on his shoulder to steady him. "Explain. You're not making any sense."

Chuck took a calming breath. "If we show up 'married,' Ellie will freak out and yell at me for several hours, and then it'll be just snide comments from then on out. If we show up merely engaged, she'll squeal and fawn over us for a little while, but then... oh dear God, _then_... she'll start planning the _wedding_. We'll be lucky to get out of Louisiana without a huge Gala wedding. If she has her way it'll be the social event of the summer."

Sarah grinned. "Which will probably get us killed by the Ring," she mused. "What's Ellie's stance on pre-marital co-habitation?" Chuck merely sighed dejectedly, and Sarah nodded. "So really you have two choices," Sarah went on, "A fake wedding now, or a honest to goodness _shotgun_ wedding once your sister realizes we've been sharing rooms the whole trip."

"How's she going to find that... out..." Chuck trailed off as the reason for Sarah's grin became obvious.

Sarah snickered triumphantly. "Pick your poison, Chuck. Looks like you're stuck with me one way or another."

Chuck groaned. "Point me toward the card tables," Chuck said. "I need something to distract me from my impending horrible death at the hands of Ellie."

Sarah looped her arm through his as they walked. "Relax, Chuck. I'll protect you," Chuck did the math on that one in his head, and frowned. Now he needed something to distract him from the apocalyptic battle that the idea of Sarah and Ellie at daggers drawn put in his head.

They had another couple of days on the slow boat south, and Sarah chewed her lip. All her talk of fake weddings was well and good, and it was too soon for her to even be contemplating an actual marriage. She shook her head and took her arm back to glare at him. This was all Chuck's fault anyway, that smile of his was infectious was what it was. Maybe she should have done more research on Chuck. Maybe he was a mesmerist, and was doing something to— Sarah mentally berated herself; the very idea was ridiculous. Still and all, it had been days since she'd really thought about herself as a Secret Service agent, and Chuck as a mission. That was an important line that she'd left well and truly behind her.

Chuck frowned adorably. "Is something the matter, Sarah?" he said with such genuine concern that she sighed and fought the urge to lay her head on his shoulder. She couldn't hold the glare.

"No," Sarah lied. "Just thinking about having to sleep on the floor tonight."

He opened his mouth to protest, and Sarah slapped her hand over his mouth to silence him. "It's my turn," she said. "No quibbling."

Chuck had to peel her hand off his mouth in order to be heard. "Anything you say, ma'am," and pressed a courtly kiss into the back of her hand.

Sarah couldn't seem to find the objectivity to stifle the retort that sprang instantly to mind. "Careful, Chuck. I might just take you up on that," she said with a grin and a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

* * *

Roan set the time and place of the meeting with Bryce and Tesla in a seedy tavern near the waterfront, just after noon. Even though the tavern was mostly empty, save for a table or two full of hard-drinking dockworkers, Bryce didn't spot him right away when Roan came through the door. Montgomery's usual combination of crisply pressed and neatly embroidered silks had given way to rough brown woolens that blended in just right to their ragged surroundings. The elder agent was already pulling out a chair next to Nikola when Bryce recognized the utterly transformed agent Montgomery.

He stuffed his pistol back into the pocket of his coat surreptitiously, hoping Roan hadn't noticed the overreaction.  
"Excellent," he said loud enough to carry to the table of dockworkers. "My disguise is working."

Bryce shook his head dejectedly. "Announce it to the whole bar why don't you?"

Roan brushed lint from his lapel and rolled his eyes. "Please, agent Anderson, give me some credit."  
"Larkin, who's he talking about? Who's agent Anderson?" Tesla said.

Roan arched an eyebrow. "Agent Anderson was supposed to be Mr. Larkin's cover identity, seeing as Bryce Larkin officially _died _nearly three weeks ago!" he said in a low growl that merely carried halfway across the room. Roan rapped Bryce on the temple. "Ringing any bells?"

Bryce glared at Montgomery. "Hey," he whispered. "What happened to secrecy?"

Roan gestured expansively. "This whole place's a Secret Service front," he said. "Everyone here is one of my hand-picked agents."

Larkin stared as if he'd never seen the man before, and glanced at the dockworkers. One of them grinned, showing pearly white teeth and a revolver polished to a mirror sheen. The illusion of poverty and desperation had been complete. "Then what was the point of sending _me _here for Tesla in the _first place!_" he bellowed.

The elderly agent smiled fractionally, then shrugged after a moment. "Trial by fire, my boy. Trial by fire. Every bird has to leave the nest some time."

Tesla took this exchange with a sort of stoic bewilderment, hardly doing more than shaking his head minutely, and trying in vain to figure out what was going on. He frowned quizzically. "He is your son? I am trying to understand..."

Bryce and Roan stared at Tesla in turn. "No," Bryce said finally. "He is most definitely _not _my father."

Roan shrugged. "Well, I don't know if we can entirely rule it out. I seem to recall having been in Boston several time in the sixties, and I can't remember _all _their names, so I suppose it's _possible..._"

"What!" Bryce snapped. "You—"

"Kidding, Mr. Larkin!" Roan said. "This was certainly entertaining, but I believe it's time we got down to business."

Bryce scrubbed his fingers through his hair in desperate exasperation. "Can we, please?"

"Just a moment," Roan said, pushing his chair back as he stood. He gestured for Bryce and Dr. Tesla to follow him to the bar. Roan glanced at his feet and shuffled to the side slightly. "Mr. Larkin, one step to your right please." Finally, he nodded in satisfaction and tipped his ratty bowler hat toward the barman. "Ronald? Open up."

The barman nodded and yanked something behind the counter. "Hellfire!" Bryce shouted. The floor dropped out from under them and they fell. The wind of their passage ruffled their hair as they flew down some kind of metal chute for several seconds before tumbling out into a dimly lit room in a cloud of dust. A loosely packed pile of burlap sacks holding what felt like goose down cushioned the impact. Bryce coughed dust and stared around in wonder.

"Where the hell are we?" he said when he caught his breath.

Roan was already on his feet and busy dusting his rough workman's clothes as if they were fine silk. The older man blinked and snatched his hat from the the air. It had popped free of his head during the trip down the slide and wafted gently. "Fifty feet below the street, in a maze of tunnels used by the old underground railroad. I took them over after the war, had them re-shored, that sort of thing."

"Why?"

Roan shrugged. "Why not?" he chuckled at Bryce's expression. "Fine, if you prefer a more detailed explanation. If not us, it would have been someone else. The Ring, or just smugglers, either way, I wanted a presence down here. In case of emergency."

"And is that what this is?" Tesla chimed in. "An emergency?"

Roan frowned and gestured expansively. "If this _isn't _an emergency, I don't know _what _is!" he found a lantern and lit it easily with a match that he produced seemingly out of thin air. "Come along!"

Bryce sighed and shrugged at Tesla. "If we want any kind of explanation, we'd better do what he says."

The scientist nodded. "I've dealt with Director Mongtomery before," he said knowingly. "Is for the best to just let him talk. Usually he runs out of breath after a few minutes."

"I can still hear you," Roan called from further up the dim corridor.

Tesla raised his voice. "I was counting on it."

Roan found the door shortly, though there was a bit of a production involved, moving what looked like decades-old debris away from the thing. Bryce grabbed what looked to be a piece of an old door-frame half gone to dry rot and looked a little closer. He blinked and held it closer to his face to be sure. "Are these toolmarks? It's fake debris?"

"Hand-_carved_ fake debris, thank you very much," Roan said, snatching the length of carefully conditioned lumber and leaning it back against the wall. "For just the right touch of squalor, in case anyone wanders in from the hidden docks," Roan explained, and began running his hands along the edges of a heavy hammered-iron door. "Now where is that bloody—ahah!"

The door itself stayed in place, it was the _wall _that swung inward, revealing half a foot of iron set into the wall. Roan waved them through and heaved the disguised door shut again. The sound was like a tomb closing in on them. "Nice and homey," Bryce mused.

"Your sarcasm will soon be replaced by humble pie, young Mr. Larkin," Roan said, just before he knocked something over with a crash. The little bit of light Tesla's lantern gave off enough light to see each other, but that was all. Montgomery cursed under his breath, then there was a metallic thud and a groan of machinery somewhere far off. Electric lights faded up and revealed a conference room so richly furnished, Bryce half expected Rockefeller himself to walk in through the far door.

Roan turned and spread his arms expansively. "Welcome to the Castle," he grinned.

Bryce heard himself let out a low whistle. Roan's smirk grew even more smug. "Take a seat, Dr. Tesla. It's time I let the both of you in on the whole picture."

Tesla sat first, and steepled his hands, waiting expectantly. Bryce leaned against a wall and crossed his arms.

"Right. Without further ado," he said, taking a seat and turning a crank near his padded leather armchair. A panel in the center of the table began rising, slowly and creaking in time with Roan's efforts. "Dr. Tesla, dim the lights?" Roan produced a yardstick. A chart appeared, projected onto the far wall, with a series of grainy photographs of men in business suits. "These men are known members of the Ring. A splinter group made up of remnants of the Revolutionary era Culper Ring and more current recruits are attempting to seize power in our country, gentlemen. The men at the top of the chain are mostly unknowns." It took him a moment to circle back to the projector and shuffle the slides out by hand. Bryce's mouth tightened at the new picture. "Among them was _this_ man, named Theodore Roark, who, with the aid of one Stephen Bartowski, Mr. Larkin's guardian, built a machine that somehow sees through time." Roan changed slides again, photographs detailing some of the debris. A shard of glass with goldwork lines. Bryce shivered, remembering the crackle of electricity off the cube, the thump and the just inaudible crack Teddy Roark's neck had made on impact. He realized he hadn't been following along for nearly a minute, and tried to catch himself back up. "The Ring was going to use the foreknowledge they gained from the project to see that everything went their way.

Mr. Larkin, you and Charles Bartowski smashed the machine, and the scheme, for the most part. Dr. Tesla, you've seen a handful of the pictures, imagine if you had millions of them. What could you glean from them?"

Tesla let out a low whistle himself. "You were there, Larkin? Did you see the future?"

Bryce shook his head. "No, Roark had some kind of goggles that did some science thing, so we didn't really notice."

Tesla brightened up at this. "Ah, so the machine polarized light in some way, then?"

Bryce shrugged. "I don't know. Chuck understood more how the machine worked. He lost his goggles, too. But, he died in the explosion."

Roan grinned. "Well... not exactly. I sent him on the run with my best agent, and put some misdirection in the newspapers. I just had word from her yesterday. She and Chuck were in Cleveland, but heading south."

"Son of a bitch," Bryce growled. "You lied to me?"

"I kept a secret from you. And you seem more angry than surprised, so really, I don't quite know what all the fuss is about. What part of _Secret _Service did I not explain properly?"

"He does have a point," Tesla put in, in what Bryce imagined was meant to be a helpful tone.

"Whose side are you on anyway," Bryce demanded tartly.

Tesla scratched his head. "I don't understand the question. Are we not all on the same side?"

Bryce shook his head. "Whatever. So, Chuck's alive. How does that help us? Wait. She?"

Roan nodded. "You met, I believe. Sandra, was her cover name."

Bryce's jaw dropped. "Son of a bitch. She's Secret Service?"

Roan nodded. "She does leave something of an impression, but Agent Walker can disappear as well, when the notion grabs her."

"I knew there was something wrong with her," Bryce said. "Lord, I still didn't expect her to be working for _you_..."

"You say this Charles, he saw what the machine did," Tesla said into what might have become an awkward silence, nudging the discussion back on track. "Perhaps we can use what he knows to discover the Ring's intentions."

"That's what I was thinking," Roan said. "But, I think he's ruined my agent."

Bryce frowned. "Ruined? What do you mean?"

"She claims in her report, that Mr. Bartowski remembers nothing of the future," the formerly dapper Secret Service man shrugged. "Nothing whatever, which I find difficult to believe. Now, of course, I am not an expert in matters of science, but zero recall seems less likely than at least some retention of information. She seemed oddly protective of him in her reports even before you and Charles stormed the Roark mansion, but... I don't think it goes beyond that..."

Larkin grinned. "Wrong, Director Montgomery. I got to witness it as it happened. Love at first sight."

Roan cursed under his breath. "Walker? In love? You must be mistaken. She's as unsentimental a woman as I've ever met. What you saw was just her cover. I'm seldom wrong in these matters."

"I'm seldom wrong in these matters, either," Bryce said smugly. "It was mutual. I saw what I saw. Leave them out there on their own for another few months, your agent Walker'll come back Agent _Bartowski_."

Roan wrinkled his nose in disgust at that notion. "In any event, I suggested in my latest communique to agent Walker, that she and Charles seek out Dr. Lowenbruck in Baton Rouge, if they're already heading south."

Tesla nodded. "A fine idea. He's come quite a way in debunking phrenology, and I hear he's had some trouble with the local constabulary for dissecting the brains of murder victims. He likely knows what he's talking about. At worst, their contacting him can do no harm, so long as he isn't working for the Ring."

"I trust the man," Roan said, tabling that discussion for the moment. "Which brings us back to the matter of your little misadventure of three days past. The device they stole from your lab, Dr. Tesla. How does it fit into their plans, have you any idea?"

"It's an earthquake gun, for God's sake. I can think of one thing they might want it for. Causing earthquakes?" Bryce said.

Nikola was immediately shaking his head. "That's not what it does," Tesla protested. "It's actually not as useful as all that. You'd have to know the composition and construction of a structure to a fair degree. Out in the open plains, against a cliff-face, it would be all but useless."

"Then how did they use it so fast, and to such good effect on your building?"

Tesla shrugged. "I was... testing it," he said, "Under _controlled_ circumstances of course... but..."

"If the ring hadn't stolen it, you'd have brought your building down on your own head," Bryce declared, halfway between amused and alarmed. "Wouldn't you?"

Tesla shook his head. "Larkin, you just don't understand the scientific processes," he said. "To make an omelet you must of course break some eggs, yes?"

Bryce snorted. "Don't you mean buildings? Still, Roan's right. What's the point then, in stealing the damn thing? Why did they take it, unless they planned to use it again? Maybe a bank vault somewhere they want to crack open? If we knew where they were going to strike, we could do something about it, lay an ambush or something."

Roan grinned. "Quite right, Mr. Larkin. Quite right. This is why we are convened here, in Castle. We shall endeavor to find out many things using this state of the art facility. I always have a plan..."

"Great," Bryce said. "Why don't you share it with us?"

Roan cleared his throat. "Yes, quite. You see the thing is... it may need a few last minute... tweaks."

"Such as?" Tesla inquired.

"Most of the bits that involve actually solving our problem. But I'm sure a breakthrough is near!"

Bryce shook his head. Tesla rolled his eyes.

* * *

The telegraph operator didn't bother to look up when the bell on the door jingled. "One moment, please," he said. "I'm just finishing up a supply request. There. Now what can I do for— yeugh!" He looked up and blanched visibly white, his stomach lurching. The man's left eye socket was a gaping hole with a ragged scar dragging down the side of his mouth into a constant snarl. The slice started at the eye socket itself and zigzagged down almost all the way to his jawline. The operator supressed his first instinct, to demand why the man didn't just wear an eyepatch, as it hardly seemed prudent. The man facing him wore a brace of pistols at his hips, and a second pair in holsters sewn into the bandoliers that made an X across his chest. He was dressed in a rough leather trenchcoat, the telegraph man saw, with a hastily patched bullet-hole where the man's heart should have been.

"H-how can I help you?"

"Telegram for Smith," the man said in a horribly calm, and somehow _civil_ tone. It was unnerving that a man who radiated such terror could be so cool and collected.

The operator nodded vigorously, and turned to pop open the safe under the far counter where certain telegraphs were held until called for. His hand shook briefly before he threw the lever and hauled the door of the safe open. Finding the correct telegram took only another few seconds, and then he turned again to hand the missive to its intended recipient. He paused for a moment, then, unsure if he'd asked for some form of identification. He cleared his throat... "Excuse me, sir," he managed to squeeze through his voicebox. "I need to confirm your identity before..."

The scar where Smith had lost an eye shifted grotesquely as the man grinned. "Of course," he said in that same unnerving calm. The operator had a moment to let out a sigh of relief.

Then the knife took him in the gut, just below where his ribs met in the center of his chest. He tried to gasp a lungful of air to shout, to send out the alarm and complain that he was being killed, but he couldn't breathe, his lungs somehow refused his call. Smith twisted the knife and the telegram operator jerked into a convulsion, staggering backward and collapsing across the open safe. He stared in horror as Smith carefully cleaned the murder weapon with a handkerchief that he threw to the ground once he'd restored the blade to a mirror sheen. Somehow, the man hadn't gotten so much as a drop of blood on his clothes. The telegram operator slipped into shock and knew no more.

Vincent re-sheathed his knife and opened the telegram. About what he expected, the Ring never told any of its operatives the whole story, for operational security in case of capture. Not that Vincent ever expected to be caught, but he understood the precautions.

His eye widened when he got to the last line of the telegram. Blond woman. His hand came up to his left eye socket involuntarily, and he growled. It would be good to get another shot at that bitch. There could be no doubt it was her, given the trail of bodies she'd been leaving behind since leaving Boston. A Ring crony with the Pinkertons put her and Bartowski heading south, so maybe she was coming for Perseus. If that was the case, he'd set up a nice down-home southern welcome for her. Riverboat could get her to Louisiana in a day or so.

Vincent stormed out to the half dozen surviving members of the Fulcrum gang, all still sitting their horses. Good. He hoisted himself easily into his saddle. "We ride for Baton Rouge," he bellowed. "Got an old 'friend' to visit.

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: I'll try to get updates happening more often on this story, once I defend my thesis in two weeks. Reviews will distract me from how badly my Preface is going.


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: I know it's been a long time, but this story isn't abandoned. I promise. I'm pretty sure I know where I'm going now, and the action will be picking up again quickly as we head through the third act to the shocking conclusion. But we've still got a few chapters left, though, so relax.

Chapter 22:

The swaying of the boat still gave Chuck trouble, but over the last two days, he'd mostly become numb to the lurching feeling it had given him at the start. The money situation was taken care of as well; though Chuck suspected that Sarah had been cheating, he had no proof, and neither did anybody else. They had ended the first day of gambling up nearly five hundred dollars, and added another four hundred the second day. Rays of sunlight had been poking through the window of their cabin for a few minutes before Chuck woke up, and the sense of warmth and safety it gave him, tucked safely in the blankets was only mildly ruined by the sudden lurch as the riverboat came to a stop

He blinked his eyes open and started back from the vibrant blue eyes peering down at him. Chuck swallowed the startled shout and felt a grin tug up the corner of his mouth. "Were you watching me sleep?" Chuck said.

A hint of red bloomed on Sarah's cheek and she shrugged one shoulder in mild embarrassment. "Well, there were a couple of weeks where that was about all I did, if you recall. How could you begrudge me a few minutes now?"

Chuck shook his head, grinned a little wider and sat up. "I suppose not," he said. "How long have you been up?"

"A little while. I split our winnings," she said and nodded to the side table, bolted into the floor so it wouldn't tumble around. The Mississippi was generally calm and serene for large ships like the riverboats, but Sarah had come to agree with Chuck. Something was wrong with this particular riverboat, to keep them waddling along and swaying so badly. She didn't seem to know what to do with her hands, and then she blushed again. "I'll just... be outside while you get dressed."

Chuck rolled his eyes and swept the covers off, to reveal a rumpled pair of slacks and freshly laundered shirt, though also wrinkled from sleep. "No need. I'm dressed."

Sarah shook her head and grinned. "Really? With me sleeping on the floor, you still felt the need to sleep fully clothed? What kind of girl do you take me for?"

Chuck shrugged and threw his feet over the side of the bed, before he began tugging his boots on. He got his first good look at her clothes and quirked an eyebrow. "What's with the dress?" he asked.

She scowled briefly, and then crossed her arms. "I want to make a good first impression on your sister." Then she grinned. "You didn't answer my question."

"Huh?" Chuck said.

There was a twinkle in her eye. "You heard me."

Chuck stammered briefly, until Sarah laughed and ruffled his hair. He glared at her through his mussed curls. "Apparently you're channeling the spirit of my older sister right now, so... we've got that."

Sarah wrinkled her nose and grimaced. "Funny," she said sarcastically.

"What can I say," Chuck grinned. "I'm a funny guy."

"Come on," Sarah said, hauling him to his feet. "We should probably go before they send someone to kick us out of the room."

"Is that a concern?" Chuck frowned. "This is my first time on a riverboat Casino."

Sarah cocked her head to one side. "Me too," she shrugged one shoulder. "I figure better safe than sorry. That's my motto."

"It's a good motto," Chuck said, his lips twitched into a half smile, and he leaned forward slightly. "And you look good in the dress. I realize I didn't mention that before, just, do you like wearing it?"

Sarah frowned. "I prefer breeches," she said. "Easier to run in, fight in."

"The day we met," Chuck said. "I think I noticed that about you."

She wrinkled her brow, and put her hands on her hips. "How do you mean?"

Chuck shrugged. "I don't really know. That was part of what captivated me about you, the way you carried yourself. As beautiful as you are, and somehow uncomfortable in your own skin, a little bit?"

Sarah pouted. "I wouldn't go that far."

"I didn't mean it as a bad thing," Chuck said. Sarah drifted a little closer. "If you want to wear pants, wear pants. I don't care what Ellie thinks on the matter."

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "Really," she said flatly. "I doubt that."

Chuck shrugged. "Still, if you want to change back into your regular clothes... I'll give you the room."

She pursed her lips, and a knock came at their cabin door.

"Excuse me," a voice said through the door. "We have arrived in New Orleans, it's time to disembark."

Sarah shrugged. "We'll be right out," she said, raising her voice. Chuck frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but Sarah put a finger to his lips and smiled. "Thanks, but... sometimes dresses are nice too."

Chuck pulled her hand down away from his mouth and laced his fingers through hers. "Careful there, Agent Walker, you might just turn into a real girl."

Sarah scowled and poked her tongue out at him, then turned and gestured imperiously toward her tightly packed traveling trunk. "Well, then. Poor fragile girl that I am, I don't know how I'll manage to help carry the luggage." Chuck groaned inwardly and started hauling.

* * *

The city of New Orleans crouched next to the mississippi just south of Lake Ponchartrain, steamy with a muggy heat that Chuck had never encountered in Boston. He mopped sweat from his brow even as they were walking across the boarding causeway to the docks, and already felt his clothing sticking to him uncomfortably. He loosened and then pulled his tie off completely.

"Are you okay," Sarah asked. "The heat can be pretty bad if you're not used to it."

"God," Chuck said. "It's not even noon yet. How do people live like this?" A nearby dockworker spat out the side of his mouth and glared at him. Chuck blinked and shrugged. "No offense."

Sarah took his arm and led him safely away from potential trouble, though he was still half-dragging the trunk full, mostly, he remembered, with firearms and oriental bladed weapons. The realization made him shift to a more secure grip and redouble his efforts. There was an omnibus nearby, drawn by a team of eight horses, and Chuck gratefully put the trunk in the cargo area before clambering aboard after Sarah and sinking gratefully into one of the hard wooden seats.

The sound of the team of horses' hooves clicking on the paving stones conspired with the sweltering heat to lull him to sleep, but Sarah poked him with her elbow and he perked back up. The trip was fairly short, the buses hired by the shipping line only carrying them out of the worst areas near the docks. Before they really had time to settle in, they were herded back onto the street.

Chuck scooped up the trunk and they set off again. "So," Sarah said after a few minutes of walking down the street. "Which way to Ellie's house?"

Chuck blinked. "What? I don't know. I was following you. I've never been to New Orleans before."

Sarah put her head in her hand for a moment and then gave a long-suffering sigh. "Do you have the address?"

Chuck nodded, and started patting his coat pockets awkwardly, still trying to hold the heavy trunk by the handle on the end. Sarah rolled her eyes and grabbed the other end, to help him balance.

"Aha!" Chuck exclaimed, finally liberating the slip of paper from his coat pocket and holding it up. Sarah snatched it out of his hand and swept over to a young man hawking the days newspapers. Chuck followed closely.

Sarah bought a paper and then asked for directions, and then they set off down Canal street north into a slightly better part of town, though the usual smells of a city were worse here, with the heat of the summer sun baking down on what was basically marshland paved over and filled in. Still, it felt good to be able to walk again without the lurching wallow of the riverboat, but the sun beat down on them mercilessly, and when they finally found Ellie's house, a narrow three story crammed in between a pair of similar looking buildings, he was grateful to be done. In fact, despite only waking a little more than an hour ago, he thought he'd be able to go to sleep again just as soon as Ellie could make up a bed for him.

Sarah grabbed the bell pull and they waited. It wasn't long before the door was flung open and a tall brunette stood in the portal, benign curiosity shifting immediately to shock. Ellie fainted dead away.

"Huh," Chuck said. "That was unexpected."

Chuck dumped the trunk in the entryway and got Sarah to help cart Ellie into the house, just off the entrance was a well appointed sitting room, with tastefully embroidered chairs and a small sofa. "There we go," Chuck said and made his way over to it, before setting his sister down gently. "You have smelling salts?"

"For all the times I've fainted in the time you've known me?" she said, and Chuck shrugged.

"I never expected you to have _swords_," he said. "I figured it wouldn't hurt to ask."

Sarah shook her head. "I'll go see if there's a bucket of water or something."

"We're not dumping a bucket of water over her head," Chuck said.

Sarah sighed. "So I could wet a towel," she said.

"Oh, right," Chuck said fighting a blush. "That would work too."

He sat at his sisters side and leaned over. "Hey, El. Guess I gave you a bit of a shock. Sorry about that."

Sarah bolted back into the room, nostrils flaring in panic. "Chuck. There's a baby in the kitchen. Help!"

Ellie's eyes sprang open, and she blinked at Chuck. "You're alive," she breathed and crushed him in a bearhug. Chuck struggled for a moment, unable to draw breath in her constricting arms. He waved to Sarah for helm, and she retreated slightly, attempting to blend into the background. Then Ellie pushed him out to armslength and frowned. "I saw your obituaries. You and dad. Is he..."

"I'm sorry Ellie," Chuck said. "He's dead."

She nodded slowly, fighting back tears, but the moment was shattered by a wailing sound, of the baby crying. Ellie patted him on the shoulder and swept across the room and into the kitchen. Chuck blinked and followed. He stood in the doorway and watched in bemusement. Ellie scooped the baby out of a high-chair and spun, rocking the dark-haired infant gently and making soothing sounds. "That must be Clara," Chuck said, and she turned on him.

"That's your uncle, little one," she said with a grin. "The _genius_."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "Hey," he said. "I just came back from the grave, how 'bout a little respect."

Ellie shrugged. "You couldn't send a telegram telling me you weren't dead?"

Clara quieted after a moment, and Chuck shrugged uncomfortably, looking to Sarah for help, where she was doing her best impression of wallpaper. The tea-kettle went on the boil and Ellie turned, absently handing Clara off to Sarah without really even seeing her. He really needed to get her to teach him that.

Sarah's eyes widened near to the size of teacups, as she held the baby awkwardly, with her hands cupped under her armpits.

"Glbmin fblsnp!" Clara said.

Sarah made a sound, that Chuck was almost certain was a whimper, and his eyes widened. Images bombarded him and he shuddered briefly, blinking away images of Sarah doting on an entirely different infant.

Sarah frowned at him for a moment, eyes narrowing briefly before widening once more in realization. She knew what he'd seen. Sarah's cheeks reddened and she shook her head. "Don't get any ideas, Chuck," she whispered. A moment later, Ellie came back over, plopping the heavy teakettle on the kitchen table. She blinked at Sarah and held out her arms for Clara.

"Who's your friend," she asked, nodding her head at Sarah while she retrieved Clara.

"It's complicated," Chuck said at the same time Sarah said. "I'm his fiancee." Then she turned a glare on him.

Ellie grinned. "Hmm. Complicated," she spotted the ring on Sarah's finger and nodded at her. "You're not pregnant, are you?"

Sarah flushed crimson. "No," she said. "No, of course not." Ellie seemed to weigh that statement for several years compressed into a heartbeat or so.

"Then what's complicated," she said, before rounding on Chuck again. "Congratulations. And why haven't you mentioned her in your letters?"

"Uh..." Chuck said lamely, thoughts whirling madly. This meeting had not been going as expected. At all.

"Sit, _sit_," Ellie insisted, shifting her grip on her daughter and ransacking the cupboards for teacups. Sarah sat primly once Chuck had pulled her chair out for her, though she gave him a brief withering glare when he did so. Outside of Ellie's sight, of course. "How long are you two in town," she asked. "I can set up the guest room for you."

"Uh..." Chuck said again, then shook his head. "I don't... what?"

"The guest room," Ellie said, frowning. "For you and... I'm sorry, what was your name?"

"Sarah," she said. "Sarah Walker."

"I assume you'll want to share a room."

Chuck blinked. "You don't have a... problem with that?"

Her eyes darted from Chuck's to Sarah's faces, and the frown deepened. "_Should _I?"

Sarah stepped in before Chuck could put his other foot in his mouth along with the first one. "Thank you, Ellie. It's a refreshingly progressive attitude."

The elder Bartowski shrugged and passed out cups and saucers. She waved at Chuck to pour the tea. "Just so long as you've set the date, for the wedding." Ellie arched an eyebrow.

"Of course," Sarah said.

"We have?" Chuck said, and Sarah's head dropped into her hand, sighing heavily.

Ellie laughed. "I guess it's the couch for you, then."

The door at the back of the house banged open and a tall blond man walked in, setting a black leather valise on the counter. Sarah tensed instantly. "Chuck!" his voice boomed. "Outstanding! You're not dead!"

Chuck stood, knowing what was coming. "Good to see you too, Captain Outstanding."

Sarah frowned at Chuck, mouthing the words. He shrugged. "His real name is Devon," Chuck explained out the side of his mouth before Devon closed to lift Chuck off his feet in a one-armed hug. One-armed because his left arm ended in a stump just below the elbow.

Sarah frowned pensively, curious, but not willing to voice such an personal question. Devon caught the expression. "It's alright," he said in a more subdued tone. "You can ask. Once Chuck introduces me to his... friend?"

"Fiancee," Sarah said. "Sarah Walker."

"Devon Woodcome," he said. "Brother-in-law." He grinned and looped his good arm around Chuck's neck. "Hey, good for you, Chuck. Not just not-dead, but engaged to boot. Well, we've just got roast beef for sandwiches in the icebox, I hope that's alright?"

"It's fine," Chuck said. "Do you need a hand?" he realized a second later how he'd put his foot in his mouth again, but Devon let out a booming laugh.

"Don't worry about it," he said, still chuckling a little, but cocked his head toward Sarah. "If you're still wondering, it's an old war wound," he said.

Sarah frowned. "You don't look old enough for that."

Devon shook his head, "Not the war between the states," he said. "The Indian Wars."

Chuck frowned. He'd heard this story before. "If you can call them that," he said.

Devon nodded. "I know, Chuck. Except for Custer and the 7th, it wasn't much of a war from our perspective, more like a land grab and a slaughterhouse rolled into one," his voice became softer, reliving a none-too-cherished memory. "The men in my family have been running off to join the army at sixteen or seventeen since Washington and Jefferson," he explained. "I waited until I was actually nineteen. My father never really forgave me for following the rules."

"You don't have to tell all of it," Chuck said. "It's not a pretty story," he explained for Sarah.

"No, it's alright," Devon said. "The 'warband' we were chasing turned out to be mostly women and children. Our commanding officer didn't seem to care, so I relieved him of command. Took a .45 caliber bullet to the wrist for my trouble, and lost the hand to gangrene. By the time we got to a field hospital two weeks later it was too far gone. If you've never seen a field hospital, try to avoid it." He brandished his arm. "They took an extra half a foot just to be sure. Saved my life, but... we should be able to do better. I mean, here we are on the dawn of the 20th century, and we can't do better than this? That's why I became a doctor." Devon sighed. "And now, if I didn't ruin everybody's appetite. Lunch."

* * *

They ate mostly in silence, and then Sarah spoke up. "If you don't mind, Ellie? I'm feeling a little under the weather. Could I see about that guest room?"

"Of course," Ellie said, and showed her upstairs. "Chuck, the trunk?"

He grumbled but got up and hauled the trunk up a steep, cramped staircase and through to the guestroom at the rear of the house.

When he got back to the table, Devon pursed his lips. "Under the weather?" he said. "A little delicate, wouldn't you say?"

He nearly choked on his latest sip of tea, only just managing not to spew the hot beverage everywhere. He shook his head and laughed softly. "Not to her face."

Chuck went back to his lunch, and tried not to answer any more questions. They would have to talk about the reasons he and Sarah had shown up without so much as a word, but the longer he could put it off the better. It wasn't that he didn't know what to say. Sarah had drilled him on what exactly he was allowed to say, but it just felt good to be in a place that felt safe, if just for a few minutes, even if that safety was illusory. Ellie came back down with Clara a few minutes later, wearing an odd expression.

"Chuck," she said. "How long have you known Sarah?"

"Seems like years," he said.

She arched an eyebrow. "Seems like," she said. "But how long has it really been?"

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"Chuck," Ellie said warningly.

Chuck blew out a heavy sigh. "Almost a month."

Her lips pursed sourly. "Let me ask again. Is she pregnant?"

"No. God, Ellie. She told you herself," Chuck said.

"Then what—"

"Chuck," Sarah called from the stairs. "We have to move."

Ellie and Devon's jaws dropped. The transformation was startling. She had her hair gathered up in a braid of some kind, and she was wearing black pants and a dark grey shirt, with her leather vest over it. Her pistols hung at each hip, but even more shockingly, the hilt of her wakizashi poked up over her right shoulder, and a brace of cross shaped throwing knives Chuck didn't know the right name for shone on the strap that held the scabbard, slanting across her chest. A long-bladed bowie knife handle was showing in one of her boots, and a bandolier with a dozen shotgun shells made an x across the baldric that held her sword. Over all, she wore her leather duster. Sarah held the double-barreled sawed-off propped against her hip comfortably. She had the newspaper folded up in her free hand.

"How bad?" he asked. Devon and Ellie shifted their shocked stares to him. "Are Ellie and Devon in danger?"

Sarah shrugged. "I don't think so. Roan's message says we need to talk to a Dr. Fleming," she said, tromping down the stairs and over to the table. Sarah tossed the paper to him. "Page four," she explained.

Chuck flipped through the paper, and scanned the articles until he saw it. He whistled low. Dr. Fleming was missing, after a double murder at his home, and he was the prime suspect. Ellie leaned over to see the article he was reading and her eyes widened further. "What does this mean?" Chuck said.

"Nothing good," Sarah said. "But we need to be on the next train to Baton Rouge." She turned to Devon and Ellie. "Sorry we can't stay for a longer visit. You wouldn't happen to have a copy of the train schedule?"

Ellie shook her head. "Chuck, who _is _this woman?"

Sarah grinned. "I told you. I'm Sarah Walker." They didn't seem to think that sufficient, and Sarah shrugged. "Special Agent of the United States Secret Service," she said. The grin grew wicked; this was the truth too technically, if Chuck's future vision was any guide. "And your future sister-in-law." To her credit. Ellie didn't faint at this revelation. Neither did Devon, but it looked like it might have been a close-run thing.

TO BE CONTINUED...

A/N: He can't be captain Awesome, because the word's meaning didn't shift to its present meaning until the mid-to-late 20th century. In 1892, awesome would have meant the same thing as awful. As in: 'I have an awesome headache.' See? It's completely backward!

/end history lesson.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23:

Sarah didn't give Ellie and Devon time to pick their jaws up off the door. "If it's all the same to you Eleanor?" she said, crossing over to the table. "I'll leave the trunk upstairs. We need to travel light in case the real killer is still around."

Ellie wrenched herself back into the conversation with an obvious effort of will. "Real killer?"

"It's obvious the R—" he changed what he was going to say midword at a glare from Sarah. "Someone is putting on a frame," Chuck finished. Sarah nodded.

"Exactly. It's too much coincidence; I get a message from headquarters saying we need to find Dr. Fleming," Sarah went on, "and then the next thing I read he's wanted for murder? I've been doing this job long enough to know better." She scoffed and nodded to Chuck.

He turned and gave his sister a peck on the cheek before scraping back his chair and standing to follow Sarah back toward the entryway. Ellie stood suddenly, knocking her chair over backward, eyes blazing. "Charles Bartowski, I forbid you to go. I won't let you run off with this... _loose woman_ and get yourself killed."

Sarah turned back and glanced from Chuck to Ellie, pursed her lips, and planted one fist on her hip. She started to say something cutting, but Chuck beat her to the punch. Not literally, but his voice was rough. "How dare you talk to her that way," Chuck growled.

"You said yourself you've not even known her a month and she's sharing your bed!" Ellie said. "And now you'll let her drag you off into who knows what kind of danger. Chuck you could get killed!"

"Do you have any idea how many times she's risked her life to save mine? If not for her I _would _be dead. Apologize!"

Ellie opened her mouth to shout right back, but then she stopped. "Is that a gun on your hip? Chuck what is going on?"

He scowled impassively. "Apologize," Chuck said more calmly.

Ellie glared at him for a moment, but sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Not to me," he said and nodded in Sarah's direction.

"Really, Chuck. It's not that important. I've been called worse," Sarah said. "Granted, I was in the process of killing them at the time, but... I'll stop talking now." She blushed slightly at the stares she was getting, now from all sides. The only person not staring at her was Clara, who was busy trying to grab a handful of her mother's dark brown hair.

"You're both going to end up dead in a ditch somewhere," Ellie said, and then glanced pointedly in Sarah's direction. "Or worse."

Sarah shook her head. "Chuck, we need to go. Now. I didn't spot anyone watching the house, so your sister is safe."

"What?" Devon said. "Was that a concern?"

Chuck nodded. "It might be safer, all things considered, if you and Ellie hopped a train back east and stay with Devon's parents for the duration anyway. The people after me know about Ellie, but I doubt they'd go after a sitting United States Senator."

Sarah blinked. "Hang on... _Senator _Woodcombe is your father?"

Devon shrugged. "Yeah, I thought you worked for the Secret Service. You didn't know?"

She growled a curse under her breath. "Chuck, this just got a lot more complicated. Devon's father is suspect."

"What?" Devon demanded. "Suspect in what?"

Sarah pinched the bridge of her nose and bit the bullet. "Treason," she said simply, and turned back to Chuck. "You're right, though, its probably safest for them. I doubt the Ring would attack one of their own."

"The who?" Ellie said. Chuck's eyes screwed shut and he staggered into the table, slapping one hand to his temple.

"Ow," Chuck said. Sarah put a hand on his shoulder in support.

"I shouldn't have said anything," she said with a sigh, and pursed her lips thoughtfully.

Chuck recovered from his glimpse of the future. "Ellie, I don't want you and Devon and little Clara getting involved in all this. These people are responsible for father's death, and we have to stop them."

"Why you, Chuck?" Ellie said. "What is going on?"

"Chuck's right," Sarah said. "It's safer if you don't know."

Devon let his head drop into his hand, shaking slightly. Ellie turned to him. "What's wrong?"

"Didn't you hear her?" he said. "My father was complicit in Stephen's death. I can't... just run away from that." His entire body went still then, for a moment, and he stood and walked into the parlor for a moment. He came back with a Winchester carbine. "I'm coming with you."

"No, you're not," Sarah and Ellie said simultaneously, and then paused to stare at each other.

"I have to do something," Devon complained. "I have combat experience, more than Chuck at any rate. I can help."

Sarah shook her head. "No. You have a family to protect," she said, and her eyes bored into him. "Do you understand me?"

After a long moment, Devon lowered his eyes, and Sarah nodded. She tossed the shotgun to Chuck and held out her hand for the rifle. Devon tried to hold onto it for a moment before relinquishing his hold on the weapon.

"Come on, Chuck," Sarah said. "We're burning daylight." She stood stiffly by the door as Chuck made his goodbyes. Once the hugging was finished, Chuck started out. Sarah turned to follow, but Ellie grabbed her by the coat sleeve and dragged her into a supremely awkward hug.

"Thank you," Ellie said softly. "For not letting Devon go with you. Bring my brother back safe?"

Sarah grinned. "Of course," she said and thumbed her fake-engagement ring so the diamond sparkled. "I've got plans for him." Sarah glanced at Chuck and lowered her voice to a whisper. "And so you know, the one time we _actually_ shared a bed, our host sewed me up in a sack before-hand."

"I'll remember you said that," Ellie said, grinned, and gave Sarah a rib-creaking squeeze before letting her go.

Devon handed Clara back to his wife and peered out the window. Once Chuck and Sarah made the first turn, he nodded and retrieved his hat and coat.

"Where do you think you're going, Mister?" Ellie said.

Devon grinned. "Telegraph office," he explained. "I've got an old friend stationed in Baton Rouge. No offense to your brother, Ellie, but I think they could use an extra gun in this business."

"Of course," Ellie said, lips tugging up in a grin. "I'd almost forgotten about Major Casey."

* * *

"I'm sorry about Ellie," Chuck said. "She had no call to say what she did."

Sarah nodded. "Well, to be fair, she handled it better than some," Sarah said. "And you did tell her the truth about how long we've known each other. Which, if you remember, I told you would be a bad idea."

Chuck sighed and nodded. "Yes, you did. Well done, you told me so. I just don't like lying to her."

"I can understand that," Sarah said. "If it makes you feel any better, I told her we weren't... you know."

"Ah," he said. "So your notional virtue remains intact?"

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "Who says it's notional?"

Chuck blinked and did some quick mental back-pedaling. "Uh... that's... I didn't mean... so does then... you..."

Sarah snorted a laugh. "Do you really want to have this conversation here?" she said, an expansive gesture taking in the busy thoroughfare. He blushed furiously. Finally she laughed again and went up on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. "Some other time, then."

They had to wait for nearly an hour at the train station, and then, it was another three hours on the train. A majority of that time was spent in silence, though it was less awkward than Chuck thought it would be given their last topic of conversation. Sarah seemed to have forgotten the moment entirely, or at least put it behind her. He envied that about her. Not a day had gone by since he'd awoken in the hospital that he hadn't been haunted by his father's death. He tried not to let it show, but he wasn't certain how well he was doing at maintaining his brave face. Sarah merely put her head on his shoulder and went directly to sleep for much of the journey. At the very slightest sound out of the ordinary however, her head to dart back up and her eyes would scan for threats, her thumb flicking open the tie-down for one of her revolvers. Every time, when there was no observable threat, she would near as quickly resume her earlier position, snuggling into him and drifting back to sleep.

There were a fair number of stops along the eighty-some-odd miles of track between New Orleans and Baton Rouge, but the locomotive made good time nonetheless, and Chuck guessed they got up to quite nearly sixty miles per hour on a couple of straightaways. It was well into the sweltering afternoon when the train pulled into the tiny station at Baton Rouge. The wind of their passage had kept the worst of the heat somewhat at bay, though the air was still thick with moisture. It was much the same in Boston, when it came down to it, but the ever-present heat seemed like the fist of an angry god attempting to smash him into the dirt.

Sarah vaulted easily to her feet when Baton Rouge was announced, ran through a quick check of her weapons and began scanning for threats almost immediately. Chuck followed her off the train and then nearly ran into her back when she froze. He glanced around, trying to discover what had stopped her dead in her tracks.

A huge man, almost of a height with Chuck, maybe an inch or so taller even, but thick with muscles where Chuck was lean, stood with his black hat pulled low over his brows. He wore a black long sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of black trousers. His leather coat was also black, as was the leather of the gunbelt strapped around his waist. His boots were black as well, polished to a mirror shine. "You must be Walker," the man said. "And Bartowski." He reached up and Sarah drew the pistol from her right hip-holster.

"Don't move," Sarah growled.

The man grinned. "Relax, lady," he said. "Devon sent word ahead. I was just going to show you the telegram." He shook his head and pulled aside the black leather duster to reveal the silver star in a circle. "John Casey, Deputy United States Marshal. You want to put the gun away? Most times, somebody draws down on me, I take exception. I let you keep that gun on me much longer, and people will start thinking I'm sweet on you."

Sarah shivered theatrically and holstered her pistol with a quick flourish. "Can't have that."

"How much did Devon tell you?" Chuck asked.

Casey shrugged. "Not much. Hair color, heights. Your names," the big man grinned slightly. "Didn't mention the sword. Said you might need an extra gun-hand. It's been too long since I had any decent gunplay around here. I jumped at the chance."

"Can we trust him?" Chuck whispered. Sarah frowned and shrugged. "How do you know Devon?"

Marshal Casey grunted. "I was the one dragged him back to the field hospital after he got shot," he said. "Retired a few years ago when it became obvious I was never going to make Colonel, came on home, and wound up getting deputized last year after that big prison break the Fulcrum gang staged. I was on the posse that brought down Yuri the Cannibal and Scarface Tom. Liked being a lawman too much to turn the tin back in."

Sarah considered that for a moment, and finally came to a decision. "There was a murder yesterday, though that's probably not news to you. It made the papers in New Orleans, that's why we're here," Sarah said. "The suspect was a scientist working secretly for the United States Government."

"Huh. So you think he's being set up," he said, turning and nodding for them to follow. "Probably right about that. I never figured Fleming for the kind to use a knife."

Sarah blinked. "They were stabbed?" she asked. "Not shot? It didn't say in the article."

"Not just stabbed," Casey said. "Stabbed and throats slit. Blood everywhere, up the walls and on the ceiling even, way I heard it."

"Son of a bitch!" Sarah growled.

"What," Chuck said. "Sarah, what's wrong?"

"It's Vincent," she said. "The killer. Chuck, get back on the train. Go back to New Orleans and stay with Ellie and Devon. I'll come for you when it's safe." Just then, the train whistle pierced the air and the locomotive began pulling out of the station. A repeat of their stunt hopping on the train from Cleveland wasn't going to work. The distances were too great, and the train was accelerating rapidly. "Shit! When's the next train back to New Orleans?"

"Tomorrow," Casey said. "Sorry, Walker, but it looks like Bartowski's stuck here for a while. Unless... I think there's a train heading out for Austin in a couple hours. And one for St. Louis tonight?"

Sarah shook her head. There was no way she was shipping him off that far away from her. "Fine," Casey went on, "now why don't you tell me who the hell this Vincent is that you're so scared of?"

Sarah shook her head and glared at him. "I'm not scared of him," she said. "I'm scared for _Chuck_."

Casey rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Walker. You didn't answer the question."

She sighed in exasperation. "Vincent Smith is the leader of the Fulcrum gang, likes to use a knife, and he likes messy kills. If he's here, the whole gang is too."

Casey grinned. "Well, hell, guess I'd better send Devon a thank you gift. Looks like I'll get all the gunplay I can handle," he said, then his face fell. "But maybe it's not them. I don't mean to be a pessimist, but, it is possible somebody else carved up those two, isn't it?"

Sarah shook her head. "No... I mean, alright, yes it's possible, but I doubt it."

"Would it help if you saw it first-hand?" Casey said. "I don't think the owner of the house is in any hurry to go in and clean up all the blood, and it's only a few blocks away." He spotted Chuck turning slightly green and laughed. "What, afraid of a little blood, Bartowski?"

"Lay off, Marshal," Sarah said. "Lead the way. Chuck, stay close."

Unlike New Orleans, Baton Rouge was more spread out, and Casey's a few blocks, was more like half a mile.

"That's it down the street on the left," Casey said as they turned the corner at last. "The white two story with the oak trees out front." It was a tranquil neighborhood, with well-manicured grass in front of most of the houses and electric lights along the sidewalks, though of course, unlit in the midafteroon.

Sarah nodded, and kept scanning for possible threats. She included Casey in that assessment, Chuck noticed, but didn't think the other man did. It was such an odd place for a double murder scene. They were halfway down the block when Sarah stiffened. She didn't stop, or really change her demeanor in any way, but Chuck had been around her in dangerous situations often enough to notice the shift. "What's wrong?" Chuck whispered. Casey glanced at him, and then at Sarah.

"We're being watched," she said.

Casey's lip twitched upward on one side. You got a direction?"

She shook her head minutely, "No, but I know when I'm being watched. Keep moving, but also keep an eye out for a defensible location, Marshal. If they realize we know they're watching, they might spring the trap before we get to the house."

"First we were being watched, now it's a trap?" Casey mused. "Handy little sixth sense you got there, Walker." Then he grunted. "There were supposed to be two policemen watching the place in case Fleming came back. You're right. It's a trap."

Their steady pace had brought them nearly to the house Casey had pointed out. "Moment of truth," Sarah said.

"Those oaks look thick enough we might be able to use them as cover, briefly, if the Fulcrum gang is holed up inside the house," Casey said.

"And if they've got men in the house across the street," Sarah said, "they can catch us in a cross-fire."

"Unless it's not the Fulcrum gang," Chuck said. Sarah and Casey both looked at him oddly. "It could be Fleming watching the house, and the policemen might have just ran off to the bar for a drink. In this heat, who could blame them? You're both being paranoid."

"He's right," Casey said. "You're probably imagining things, Walker." He and Chuck turned down the gravel path up to the front door of the house. Sarah hesitated and turned to scan the house across the street again. Could it be her imagination? Or was that the glint of sunlight on steel.

She darted up the path and grabbed Chuck by the coat, yanked him completely off his feet and down to the ground behind the two-foot-thick bole of the larger oak tree. A plume of dirt and gravel kicked up from the path where Chuck had been a moment earlier, and a gunshot rang out.

Sarah slung the Winchester lever action she'd appropriated from Devon off her back. "Now who's imagining things, Chuck?" she said, cradled the rifle stock and spun out just long enough to snap a shot in the direction of the glint she'd noticed. Wood chips flew from the impact of the return fire.

Chuck scrambled back to his hands and knees, put his back to the tree and fumbled one of his revolvers out.

Casey had his back to the other tree, and a revolver in either hand, trained on the house. One of the windows of the house shattered and Casey ripped off a shot with either gun. A man in the house screamed in agony. "Well," he said. "I guess you told me so, huh, Walker."

TO BE CONTINUED...

A/N: Next chapter, things kick into high gear. The force is with me right now, so that next chapter might be sooner than you think.


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: In honor of unofficial leaks of a possible Chuck Season 5 pickup, I'm posting this chapter early, even though I had to cut off the Bryce/Tesla scene at the end.

Previously: Chuck, Casey, and Sarah are ambushed by the Fulcrum gang outside Dr. Fleming's house in Baton Rouge.

"Well," Casey said. "I guess you told me so, huh, Walker?"

* * *

Chapter 24:

* * *

"I'll gloat later," Sarah barked, and worked the lever on her borrowed carbine. "Head for the house, I'll cover you!"

Casey grunted. "Bartowski, you're with me. Get that scatter-gun ready. There's probably more than one of them in the house."

He swallowed nervously and thumbed back the hammers on the sawed-off shotgun. Sarah smiled reassuringly. "Be careful, Chuck. Go now!" She whirled around, bringing the walnut stock to her shoulder, and squeezing off a steady stream of fire.

A bullet hissed by with an ominous buzzing sound, and Chuck stumbled in shock. Casey grabbed him by the collar and half-dragged, half-supported him up the front-steps.

Casey lead the way, only letting go of his grip on Chuck's collar in order to ram the door open with his shoulder. A fan of splinters from the shattered door frame spun into the front room, and Casey trampled over the ruined door. Chuck was a couple steps behind him, and he caught the toe of his boot on the edge of the fallen door. He tried to twist and take the impact on his hands and side, but he still had the sawed-off shotgun in his hands. As he hit the floor, his hand squeezed involuntarily and both barrels fired in a blaze of sound and light.

A man screamed and pitched forward, smashing through the unbroken front window and toppling into the yard, with a fist-sized wound in his back. A lever action shotgun spun from the stricken gunman's hand and bounced off the couch before clattering to the floor. If Chuck hadn't tripped and accidentally shot him, he could have blasted Sarah in the back before Casey spotted him. "Hey, nice shot, Bartowksi," Casey said. "Dead center mass."

"What?" Chuck said, as he struggled back to his feet. "I killed him? No, I didn't... it was an accident."

"Could have fooled me," Casey shrugged. "I'm going to check upstairs for any more, then you tell me how you knew he was there."

Chuck froze. "I didn't know he was there—" he said, but that wasn't true, he realized. The weight of the future on his brain was suddenly sharp and acute as it had been when he awoke in the hospital. Every muscle went rigid at once, and his eyelids started fluttering madly, then after a moment, the fluttering spread to his facial muscles, radiating outward into a full body convulsion, before he collapsed face-first to the carpet.

"Oh, that can't be good," Casey said. He stooped to retrieve the fallen shotgun of the man Chuck had dispatched. "Walker!" Instead of tying up his left hand steadying the shotgun to work the lever, Casey tossed the whole weapon forward, but held the lever steady to pop the action. He racked the hammer back on the pistol in his left hand just as the to chamber a round, then moved to the window. Casey opened fire with his pistol in his left and the captured shotgun in his right. "Move!"

Sarah fired another handful of rounds from her Carbine, and shouted. "Roof of the house!" Casey growled assent and shifted his aim. Sarah came through the door at a run, and spotted Chuck's still form straight away. "Oh, my god, Chuck!" She darted over to him and started checking for a pulse.

"He's alive, Walker," Casey shouted, ducking back into cover to reload. "Now get over here and help me hold them off. There's gotta be a half dozen at least!"

Sarah stroked a stray curl out of Chuck's face, and growled a curse under her breath. She took two quick steps in Casey's direction, then rolled into cover next to him. "What the fuck happened?" she shouted over the roar of her carbine.

"He blasted that one," Casey said, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the dead man. "Didn't even look at him beforehand, I asked him about it, and he just keel over."

"Son of a bitch!" Sarah said.

"You feel like explaining?" Casey said.

"He sees the future," Sarah shot back, and sank back into cover. She popped open the top of the magazine tube slung under her rifle and dropped a handful of fresh cartridges down it. "On three!" she said, and Casey nodded. "Three!" They shouted at once, popping up and blazing away at the facing house. A return volley of fire from the Fulcrum gang put their heads back down a few seconds later. Casey snuck a look out, just his eye around the window frame, and noticed a Fulcrum gang member going across open ground with a buddy across his back. Casey grunted when he saw it. "There it is folks, looks like I got me a twofer!" He racked the action on his lever action shotgun and took aim around the window frame.

Sarah peeked out the window, and looked for herself, before she popped back under cover with her back to the wall. Her eyes widened in sudden horrid realization. Chuck wasn't lying on the floor where he'd fallen anymore. The door into the kitchen was open and through it, she could see the back door still open. Son of a bitch! Her face locked into a cold mask and she slammed a shoulder into Casey's back just as he squeezed off a round from the shotgun.

"Dammit, what the hell, Walker?" Casey barked, ducking back under cover himself.

"They took him!" She pointed at the empty spot where Chuck was. "Did you check upstairs?" Sarah growled accusingly.

"Shitfire and damnation," Casey said. "I'm sorry, Walker."

Sarah retrieved her Winchester and headed for the door. Casey grabbed her arm. "You go out there and they'll cut you to pieces."

Sarah spun and clocked him in the head with the butt of her repeater. "Off me!" she shouted and went down the front steps methodically, pulling her carbine in tight to her chest. The man on the roof across the street swam into focus and she squeezed the trigger gently. He pitched off with a scream that ended when he cracked his head on the porch railing.

A bullet tore a line of red in the sleeve of her duster on the left side. A graze, nothing more, but half a foot to the right and she'd have been dead. Sarah kept up the steady pace regardless, the pain focusing her as she spotted another gunman in the window of the house. She worked the lever to chamber another round, and brought the carbine back to her shoulder. The bullet took the man between the eyes and he fell forward into the shards of broken glass still lining the window.

The man with Chuck across his back was throwing him across the back of a horse. She could see the plumes of dust already being kicked up by a handful of riders. Most were turned away from her and already at the gallop. One of the Fulcrum members was lagging behind, looked like he'd taken a slug in the arm, and he was still turned toward her. Sarah shifted aim with her carbine, snapped the lever forward and back and shot from the hip. Or she would have if the hammer hadn't fallen on an empty cylinder. She growled a curse and tossed the Winchester to the ground, pulling both colts from her hip holsters and blazing away. The Fulcrum gang's straggler tried to run for his horse, and the range was long enough that her first shot flew wide. Her nerves weren't helping much either. Sarah alternated shots with either hand, running a count as she did. Right left, right left. Four, five, all misses. Six finally spun the Fulcrum member to the ground, and Sarah holstered her right-hand colt so she could use both hands to aim at the retreating back of the one who'd grabbed Chuck. The rest of the gang was strung out a hundred yards away, with two horses lagging behind. One had Chuck's limp form tied over sideways on the saddle, and the other held his kidnapper.

Sarah lined up the sights on her pistol and took bullet drop into account. He was fifty yards away, and the only one she had a shot on. The distinctive click of a hammer being drawn spun her back to the left, and she shot from the hip, fanning the hammer back until she ran her Single Action Army dry. The downed gang member had managed to get back to his knees, and he was woozy fromhis wounds. His shot puffed a plume of dirt at her feet, and Sarah's three shots found his stomach, center of mass and throat, in a line going up his chest at a slight angle. That was six for the right-hand Colt, so she slipped it back in her holster and hauled her left-hand Colt free.

Sarah turned back to the fleeing kidnappers. He was farther away now, she couldn't go for the headshot anymore. She needed him alive to interrogate. Sarah grimaces when she raised her left arm with the Colt in it, and had to switch hands so the wound in her left arm wouldn't affect accuracy. She took a steadying breath and let it out in a silent prayer as she squeezed the trigger. The .44 caliber slug took the trailing rider in the small of the back, and he tumbled from the saddle with a shout. The horse with Chuck strapped to it kept on as if it hadn't noticed, but the riderless horse pulled up after a couple dozen yards.

Sarah walked steadily over to him, gravel crunching under her boots as he went. The man managed to roll onto his stomach and get his gun out, though his legs were splayed awkwardly and didn't move. He shot at her, but missed, and Sarah growled another curse under her breath and shot him in the arm when she was close enough to make sure it didn't kill him. He cried out again, and al of a sudden the dam burst and she ran over at full speed and kicked him in the face, then kicked his gun away.

"Where is he? Where are they taking him," Sarah said.

He spat on the ground. "Kill me," he slurred. "Bitch."

"Why don't you blow his kneecaps off," Casey suggested in a shout from a couple dozen yards back. "That ought to loosen his tongue."

"He wouldn't feel it," Sarah shook her head and raised for voice to carry back to Casey. "That first shot paralyzed him from the waist down." She stepped on the wounded man's wrist and racked the hammer back on her Single Action Army, and nipped his pinky off with a .44-40 round.

He screamed, and she racked the hammer back again. "You got nine fingers left," she said coldly, "where are they taking him?"

"Bitch, I ain't gonna tell you nothin!"

Sarah took aim once more and pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped forward on an empty chamber and Sarah growled in disgust, tossing her revolver aside and digging in the small of her back. She came out with her .45 caliber derringer and took aim again.

"There's a cabin!" the wounded man said. "In the woods southwest of town. Near onto a day's ride in. That's where we've been keeping Fleming."

Casey stood beside her. "How many there?"

"Just two," the man said. "A guard and the Norseman."

"Who?" Casey said.

"De Smet," he moaned in pain. "Some kind of expert in torture."

Sarah ground her teeth. "Thank you for telling me," she said. "I'll make this quick." Her derringer barked twice and blew his brains out his ear in a gout of blood. She stooped to pick up her pistol without a word, and started reloading as she walked over to the dead man's horse.

Casey had a hold of the horse's bridle, when she got there, stopping her from riding off. "Hold it!" he said. Sarah mounted without a word and tried to tug the reins out of his grip. "Just hold it a minute. You are without a doubt the craziest female I ever laid eyes on, and if I was fifteen years younger, I might try and steal you away from that greenhorn Bartowski, but if you go in there with that hate burning away in your heart, you'll just get yourself killed. You want to get him back, you gotta be cold and unstoppable as a goddamn glacier, get me, Walker?"

Her eyes blazed at him for a moment, but then she blinked, and the heat in her eyes changed. He was nodding in satisfaction before she said. "I get you. But you should know, Marshal, before you tag along. We aren't bringing any of them in alive. _You_ get _me_?"

Casey grinned. "Like I said, Walker. If I was fifteen years younger..." he chuckled at the icy daggers that comment turned her eyes into, and shrugged. "Yeah, I get you."

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: I'll try to keep the time between these next few updates short, now that the proverbial shit has hit the fan.


	25. Chapter 25

A/N: I'm trying to keep up the more frequent updates, so the next chapter should be up sometime next Thorsday or Friday.

* * *

Chapter 25:

Bryce had trouble keeping his eyes open as he sat at the table in Castle. He was supposed to be going over backgrounds files of suspected Ring agents, but the heavy upholstered armchairs that surrounded the table were entirely too comfortable after his long surveillance mission the night before. For the past two days Roan had had him running down potential leads all across Manhattan, across the river in Queens, and even as far south as the New Jersey border. It was almost universally a waste of his precious time. To top off his frustrations, Roan had been decidedly tight-lipped as to Chuck's location beyond a blanket, 'he's safe with Walker,' with an offhand motion of his hand.

Last night had been different, Roan had sauntered in just after dark, his customary finery mussed and torn, sporting a fresh black eye and grinning ear to ear. The old man insisted he'd discovered a Ring safehouse, though once more refusing to share the how of it, and so, Bryce had been delegated to lug the thirty-some-odd pounds of so-called 'portable' camera up onto the roof of a building across the street. Even with Tesla's detailed operation instructions, it had taken him nearly an hour to get the damn thing set up, and then it had been another two hours before anyone had shown up. Peering through the lens on the camera, however, he hadn't been able to make out any details, and Bryce nearly gave up the whole exercise as bloody useless.

Still, he'd taken the pictures as ordered and slipped away unnoticed, or so he hoped, just before dawn. Tesla had immediately grabbed the photographic plates and disappeared into the Castle dark room with all its acids and reagents necessary to developing pictures—Bryce wasn't too concerned with the details there. If Roan had greeted him with a blanket and a pillow and an admonishment to get a good night's rest, everything would have been fine, but instead, the old man had greeted him with a thick sheaf of paper, and another assignment.

Bryce's eyes finally slid shut in exhaustion about an hour past noon, and he rested his chin in his palm, slowly toppling over and startling himself back to alertness briefly. He was in the middle of one such cycle when a shout came from the dark room. "Aha!" Tesla exclaimed. "I believe I have found the answer!" The scientist poked his head out of the door into the dark room and waved at Bryce. "Come, see what I've found."

Bryce shook his head. "Shouldn't that be 'Eureka?'" he wanted to know.

Tesla tugged the goggles from his eyes to study Bryce's expression more closely. "Do I look like Archimedes? Don't answer that."

Bryce was puzzled as always. "What? Did Archimedes look bad or something? Maybe he had a harelip? This seems an odd thing to be concerned about on your part."

"Oh do be quiet, and come see what I've discovered!" It seemed as though Bryce's surveillance photos, had uncovered something, given the way copies were strewn everywhere and hanging from clothes lines to dry in a couple cases. There was a chemical smell Bryce couldn't identify. He grimaced and held his nose.

"Well, that's great," Bryce said. "You've discovered a new compound that smells like rotten eggs had a baby with horse manure. Congratulations." His voice was slightly nasal.

"Eh?" Tesla frowned, turning to face him, then sighed when he spotted the nose-holding posture. "No, not the smell. The pictures."

"Yes, I believe you," Bryce said. "Honestly."

Tesla scowled suspiciously, but finally nodded, and waved Bryce through the dim red-tinged light of the darkroom toward one of the numerous lines with half and just-developed pictures hanging like so many fruit. "See?"

"No. No, I don't," he said. "What exactly am I looking for? Hey, these aren't the pictures I took?"

"What?" Tesla said. "No, those are over there," he waved absently. "I've been working on the pictures from the Roark/Bartowski machine."

"Right," Bryce sighed, or tried to. He had to let go of his hold on his nose to do it properly, and ended up in a coughing fit from the fumes. "Couldn't that wait? I mean, Montgomery had me take those pictures for a reason."

"Yes, yes," Tesla said waving testily and brandishing a magnifying glass in Bryce's direction. "But _look!"_

Bryce dutifully took the magnifying glass and leaned forward. "So, I'm looking. What exactly am I looking _for?_" Then he blinked. "Is that me?"

"Quite," Tesla said. "Montgomery got me the original plates, and with some experimentation, I believe I have found images embedded within the images, and so on. It is as if some vestiges of the future have crystallized into the matrix of these photographic plates. There is a wealth of information here if only we could access it efficiently."

"But we can't," Bryce said, "So, as interesting as it is to see myself in the future, and know for a _fact_ I only get better looking with age, you should probably get back to the pictures I took of that safehouse last night."

"Concur," another voice said, and both Bryce and Nikola jumped in shock. Montgomery was leaning against the far wall, wearing an impatient expression. "You two can flirt on your own time."

Dr. Tesla scowled at Roan for a moment, before he shrugged and quickly became absorbed in the second set of photographs. "I've been going over the pictures young Agent Larkin took last night, and I've spotted something."

"The suspense is palpable," Roan said. "You identified someone?"

"Oh, no. Nothing like that," he said, shaking his head. "Much too blurry for faces, not like these pictures of the future—"

"Stay on topic please," Roan said.

"Quite," Tesla said. "Referencing the diagrams Director Montgomery furnished of the New York public telephone system, I can say with certainty, that this." He pointed to a fuzzy line across the top of the picture of the courtyard Bryce had spied on the night before. "Does not belong."

Roan waved at Bryce, "Magnifyer," he said, and Bryce tossed it to him. "What exactly is 'this?'"

Tesla shrugged. "Private telephone system, or possibly a telegraph."

"You're sure?" Roan said.

"I did say 'with certainty," Tesla said. "That's not a claim I make lightly." He pointed at a section of brickwork off to one side. "There is obvious weathering here, despite the blur. This line has been in place for years, and there are no maintenance reports in the area that correspond."

"I gave you fifty boxes of reports, are you sure—"

"I'm always sure, Director Montgomery," Tesla said. "I have an eidetic memory. Now if we could get back to the future pictures?"

"This is good work, gentleman," Roan said. "The future can wait, Dr. Tesla. Is there any way for us to listen in on this telephone line?"

"Theoretically," he said, pointing at the cable. "We could splice into the line here, or possibly here. I'd need to manufacture a portable telephone junction box, which might take several days."

"You have seven hours until sunset, Tesla" Roan said, "Then I want Larkin back on that roof, listening-in to the Ring's communications." He grinned. "Excellent work, truly. If you'll excuse me, I have a lunch engagement."

Roan left them in stunned silence. Tesla's spectacles slowly slid down his nose. Finally Bryce spoke up. "When you say 'portable' this time, you mean ten pounds or so, yes?"

Tesla blinked and shoved his wire-rim glasses back into position. "I'm a scientist, not a wizard, Bryce. Perhaps I can wittle the weight down to fifty pounds or so." Tesla essayed a nervous laugh. "A ten pound telephone," he scoffed. "Next you'll want to fly to the moon like in Jules Verne."

"Fifty pounds," Bryce groaned, and knuckled his back. "Someone up there just doesn't appreciate my better qualities."

Despite the rage churning away in her gut, the worry and the despair that went with it, Sarah finally agreed with Casey, that they needed supplies. Just riding off after the surviving members of the Fulcrum gang wouldn't do Chuck any good. Casey's horse was stabled halfway across town, and riding double on the horse Fulcrum had left behind wouldn't do them any good.

What had finally turned the thing on her, was the realization that when—when not if— they got Chuck back, they'd be riding triple on the poor beast. So, they had used up nearly an hour, getting Casey's horse and some salt pork, purchasing a third horse for Chuck at an exorbitant rate because there wasn't time to haggle, then resupplying on ammunition. Sarah had been down to a handful of .44-40 cartridges, though they had plenty of 12 gauge buckshot for Casey's swiped lever-action.

She was bouncing in her saddle by the time they got back to the trail north of town where Fulcrum had disappeared into the forest. They avoided the scene of the shootout like the plague, as they hadn't waited around to give a report on the gunfight. Casey's position as the local Deputy US Marshal could get them out of a lot of trouble, but there had been four dead bodies by the time they were done, and neither Sarah nor Casey had wanted to chance it.

Casey dismounted and led his horse by the reins, stooping and crab-walking to spy the hoofprints. "Maybe about ninety minutes ahead of us," he pronounced.

Sarah frowned and pointed. "More," she said. "That broken branch. The sap has had time to congeal. Two hours."

Casey grunted and stood and inspected the branch. "Lucky guess, Walker."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Mount up," she said. "We need to make up as much ground as we can before nightfall."

The trail led them deeper and deeper into the forest, turning quickly into a swamp. At first, their horses could slog through without slowing much, but after another hour, they were in water deep enough that Casey and Sarah's bootheels were mere inches above the surface. They had to keep their eyes open for broken branches and other less concventional signs of the Fulcrum gang's passage.

Sarah nearly screamed in frustration when they lost the trail entirely, but she kept on in the direction they'd been heading, ignoring Casey's protests, until the water became shallower, and after another quarter of an hour, they were back on solid, if somewhat spongy ground. And the Fulcrum gang's tracks were there waiting for them. Sarah breathed a sigh of relief, and considered a prayer to go with it, though she wasn't too keen on religion, she figured it couldn't hurt. It was well on into mid-afternoon, and Casey claimed they needed to stop for a rest. Despite her instinct to dismiss the idea out of hand, she could feel her stomach growl at the thought of food. It was a waste of time. "We can eat in the saddle," she said.

Casey grunted something that didn't sound complimentary, but tossed her a strip of dried meat from his knapsack. She munched as they rode deeper into the swamp, keeping her eyes peeled for traps, just to be safe.

Chuck blinked and shook his head. For once in his life, he ha no idea how much time had passed. He remembered collapsing in the house, darkness, and then, a vague swaying sensation, followed by a pain in the back of the head, and more darkness. The sun was nowhere to be seen, and though he could hear his pocket watch ticking in his breast pocket, when he tried to reach for it, he realized with a jolt, that his hands were tied.

He shuddered and jerked in his bonds at a sudden sound, glancing around. It had sounded almost like a slap, or, more probably a fist impacting flesh. Chuck stared at the ceiling, where slivers of light were visible through the floor boards, but didn't give enough illumination for him to see up into the upper floor. He must be in a basement, Chuck realized, and was a little upset with himself that the realization had taken as long as it had. He could make out footsteps, heavy boots on the flooring above, and, when he squinted, he could just make out the point of light from a lamp, but he couldn't figure out the other softer sound, until he spotted the outline of boots gliding across the floor above him. Someone was being dragged bodily across the floor. A few moments later, a hatch in one wall opened, and Chuck could see wooden stairs leading into the basement in the dim orange light. Near sunset, then, assuming he hadn't been unconscious for more than a day.

Framed in the light coming in the hatch were two large men with a shorter balding gray-haired man held up between them by his armpits. One of the men laughed harshly. "We'll be back for you later, Bartowski," he said and the men flung their captive down the stairs carelessly. The man tumbled awkwardly, but then managed to control the fall subtly, rolling sidelong down the last few stairs instead of ass over teakettle.

There was blood on his face and he had a hugely swollen black eye, but Chuck knew him from somewhere, though he could swear he'd never laid eyes on the man. It was an odd sensation. The man levered himself up on his elbows and looked at Chuck curiously. "Bartowski," he coughed. "I knew a Stephen Bartowski..."

Chuck nodded, waiting until the door above them closed out the dim light of sunset, to say in the dark, "Dr. Fleming I presume?"

The man blinked his one good eye in consternation. "How did you know?"

Chuck shrugged, though in the darkness, he suddenly didn't know if the other man could see the gesture. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Dr. And it's a long story."

"Well, I'm obviously not going anywhere," Fleming said with a chuckle that turned into a groan.

Chuck sighed and shook his head. "I saw the future. That and for a scientist you managed to avoid the police fairly easily. I had an inkling you might have had 'help' disappearing."

"The police," Fleming said. "Why would they be after me?"

"You don't know," Chuck said, more a realization than a question. "I'm sorry. There were two people murdered in your home. It made the papers as far as New Orleans that I know of."

"My god. Ellen," Fleming began to sob softly.

"Who are these men who took us?" Chuck said. As much as he respected the man's grief, there was no time for him to indulge it. "What do they want with you?"

Fleming growled a curse. "Definitely Stephen's boy. Always right to the point."

"They'll be coming for me soon," Chuck said. "Anything you can tell me would be helpful at this pont. What did they want to know?"

"How do you..." Fleming paused. "You're the one they were talking about. The information in your head." Chuck could hear the man shifting, probably trying to get to his feet. A note of desperation came into Fleming's voice in the darkness. "You said you saw the future? How!" Suddenly, he could feel the man's hands on his coat, hauling him roughly closer. "Answer me!"

"My father built a machine," Chuck explained, prising Flemings hands gently from his collar. "A sort of telescope to see into the future. Something went wrong, and I saw... maybe everything. Too much, at the very least. I've only been able to call back glimpses, here or there, of what I saw."

"Our captors are going to try to pry the information out of your skull," Fleming said. "And I fear I may have given them the tools to do it."

"Like what?"

"Mesmerism, deep trance states. Once thought to be mere parlor tricks, I've heard tell of scientists having success in accessing repressed memory—" Fleming stopped for a moment, before he went on. "One of the men, I recognized. De Smet. He knows just enough to be dangerous, and he has some kind of chemical serum he says can force a man to tell the truth. If you make him use it, it could permanently harm you, maybe even kill you. I don't know enough about the blasted stuff."

"Can you help me at all?" Chuck said. "Some pointers at least to stop him from Mesmerizing me? Or maybe you can help me remember, before they have the chance to snatch the knowledge out of my brain? I might be able to remember a future where we get out of this safe and sound."

"Yes," Fleming said, slowly almost as if startled at the request. "Yes, I can see where that would be useful. We haven't much time. They'll be down for you soon. Usually they stop to eat and rest after a beating like the one they just gave me. You wouldn't happen to have any coin, young Mr. Bartowski? Perhaps a bit of string?"

Chuck frowned patted his pockets, awkwardly because his hands were still bound. "No, he finally said. "But I still have my pocket watch." His eyes were adjusting to the darkness now, and he could make out Fleming's outline and a bit of his expression. He looked pleased about something.

"Of course," he said, and the grin widened as he took the watch. "That will do nicely." He set the watch swaying beneath his hand from side to side, and his voice droned monotonously. Chuck felt the watch swim into his vision. It was all he could see anymore. "Relax," Fleming said in a tone that begged Chuck to trust it implicitly, which he found himself, unaccountably, doing. "Focus only on the sound of my voice. You are beginning to feel sleepy, verrrrry sleepy..."

TO BE CONTINUED...

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A/N: I've been waiting to use that line for a while. Drop me a review if you're feeling generous. I love getting feedback, almost especially when its something I could be doing better. Or a writing tic, like when I overuse 'realized'. Working on that one. Coming up: Sarah and Casey have words with Vincent and the Fulcrum gang. (And by words I mean bullets)


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: Time for some two-fisted action! Or: hanging out on rooftops with Bryce.

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Chapter 26:

Bryce knuckled his back and shielded his eyes from looking directly into the sunset. Just lugging the portable telephone Tesla had built him was trouble enough, despite the padded straps built into the box-like knapsack, he didn't much relish the though of climbing the drainage pipes up to the roof. He shook his head and scanned the street again. This was no time to let himself get distracted.

He skulked in the mouth of an alley across the street from his target building for a few minutes after the sun disappeared, watching the movements of what were obviously sentries. That was a change from the last time, he thought with a grimace, wondering if he should call the mission off for the night. Bryce slumped against the wall, letting the stonework take some of the weight from his huge boxy pack for a while as he thought things through. The buildings in the area were mostly of dressed stone, and though well-maintained, traced their origins back into the early parts of the previous century, at the very least. They were shorter by several stories than many of the buildings in the surrounding areas, and unless Bryce missed his guess, all of the older buildings were Ring holdings, not just the building Roan had identified two days previously as a Ring safe house.

That made his mission tricky, but not impossible. He slipped into his pocket for a folded copy of Tesla's photograph, taking a brief glance in the little light that remained to make sure he had oriented himself correctly. It wouldn't do to climb the wrong building, no, it wouldn't do at all. There was one building in the cluster of buildings, almost a compound, though there was no exterior wall to speak of, and one building alone which had a roof that was close enough to set up his 'portable' telephone. Bryce's current position in the mouth of the alley had gone unremarked, thankfully, and he had a basic grasp on the sentries' patrol patterns.

He'd have preferred a more thorough knowledge, given that if he was spotted, they weren't likely to ask him in for coffee and biscuits. Bryce supposed it was technically possible, just very unlikely. He shook his head at the extraneous thought and strode out of the alley. His eyes scanned back and forth for any sentries he hadn't spotted, especially on the rooftops. He imagined that his bootheels echoed on the pavement, but it was just nerves. The sound of his footsteps carried to Bryce's ear, but beyond that, only a handful of feet, and he'd timed his movements to be sure there were no roving sentries within a dozen paces, and those looking the wrong way anyway.

He made it to his target building without any problem, but almost immediately noticed a complication. There weren't any drainpipes, at least none he could see. The roof he'd climbed to the night before had them, but he couldn't climb that one for this particular mission. The private phone line was the entire point. Bryce's heart raced in his chest, and he could fool himself that he could hear his blood rushing through his head. He was in enemy territory now. The handful of buildings all backed onto a smallish courtyard, complete with a fountain which made a distracting splashing sound off in the distance. There were shrubs dotting the neatly trimmed grass, and— he couldn't be sure in the early dark before moonrise— a tidy little herb garden. He hadn't spotted that the night before, probably a line of sight issue.

Bryce barely faltered a step when he failed to find a good place to climb his chosen building, instead he walked on, coming straight up to the fountain, scanning the bright windows of the nearby Ring buildings, if that's indeed what they were. His skin itched along the back of his neck and his forearms as if someone was watching him, and Bryce kept going, then made a turn around the fountain. His eyes searched for the unseen watcher, but he couldn't place the sensation. He didn't dare sit at one of the stone carved benches near the fountain, but he paused to study his building from the new angle, and finally felt his customary grin slide into place. It wouldn't be as easy as the drainpipe had been—and his pack had weighed considerably less with the lightweight camera on his back— but he could do it.

He continued his brief walk through the courtyard, coming up to the closest wall of the building, and looked up. He could see the wire slanting across the courtyard and running alongside this particular building's roof above his head. The stones were wide-set, with large gaps between where some of the mortar had crumbled away over the decades. He fit his fingers into one of the gaps gingerly and nodded in satisfaction. Bryce reached up and began the ascent. Despite the burning in his shoulders and back that started almost as soon as he began, he made good time, and collapsed thankfully onto his belly on the roofing tiles.

Next came the technically difficult part. He slung his pack off and turned it around, crouching near the edge of the roof. Tesla had left him written instructions as well as the verbal ones, but he remembered Tesla's lecture well enough that he could have recited it to himself as he worked. Most of the telephone was boxy, where Tesla had fabricated a makeshift case for the works inside it, but there was the recognizable handset, and a pair of trailing wires with wicked looking clamps of some kind on the ends. These, Bryce leaned over the edge of the roof and clipped gingerly onto the phone line where it ran beneath him along the roofline.

Then it was simply a matter of slithering up the incline of the roof to where he'd left the phone, removing the wax cylinder from its safety case and setting up the needle to record. Bryce fished a notepad and pen out of his jacket pocket as well for a backup. Last, was the damn waiting. It was probably going to be hours before anyone called. His stomach grumbled, and Bryce let out an exaggerated sigh.

Surprisingly enough, it was less than a single hour, before someone in the complex received a call, and he tensed in anticipation. "What have you gotten me mixed up in, Shaw!" A somewhat familiar voice demanded without any warning.

"Beg your pardon?" Came the reply.

"I just spoke to my son," the first voice said. "And he gave me an earful. Claimed I'd somehow helped kill his father in law! That isn't what I signed up for, Mr. Shaw."

"Senator, please. You must understand," Shaw said. "Our enterprises demand the highest secrecy. If there is a threat to that secrecy we must and do act decisively. Along those lines, Senator, if you've been discussing out business with your son without letting us vet him first..."

"Don't change the subject on me, you snake," the senator growled, and Bryce placed the voice just as he confirmed his suspicions. "Stephen Bartowski was a man of science, and a friend. If that was you and yours, I don't care who you answer to in your organization, you'll answer to me for it as well."

"It was Roark, acting without orders," Shaw said, oily smooth. Butter wouldn't melt on his tongue, Bryce guessed. "You know how he could get, Senator Woodcombe."

"In point of fact, I _don't. _And I don't intend to. I wash my hands of this entire affair," Woodcombe said, and hung up. Shaw stayed on the disconnected line, and there were a series of odd clicks on the line. Bryce realized after a moment, that there was some kind of switch being thrown, and then a new voice came onto the telephone line.

Bryce blinked in shock. Not even a brief conversation with an operator, just a new voice on the other end of the line. The Ring had somehow figured a way to bypass switchboards entirely. But then, if it was they're own private phone network, there couldn't be too many people using it, switching operations might be simple enough to be automated.

"Yes?"

"What the hell is going on in Louisiana," Shaw demanded of the new voice. "I thought your man had the Bartowski situation in hand."

"Vincent has the boy," the new voice claimed. "We've cornered the market on oracles. Beyond that, what is there to handle?"

"Woodcombe's son married the Bartowski girl, if you recall," Shaw said. "The son told her enough that the Senator is pulling his support from the plan."

The new voice cursed. "Can we still go forward?"

Shaw paused in thought. "Yes. The device is shipping to Fort Knox tonight, and there are teams in place at the other targets awaiting word for the go-ahead." The device, Bryce mused, could that be Tesla's earthquake machine? And then everything—or at least enough—clicked into place for him. The gold depository, earthquake gun, seeing the future. They just wanted him out of the way so he couldn't warn the guards at the fort. It was a robbery, and probably a stock swindle in the bargain, but not a plot to seize control of the government. Bryce let out a sigh of disgust. His father had died over _this_? Raw greed? "Bollocks," he grunted, and the line went silent.

"Did you just say something?" Shaw said after the pause.

Bryce blinked and held the handset away from his face for a moment, staring at the oddly shaped contraption again. A standard telephone handset was a tiny electric speaker, so that the person on the other end's voice responses could be transferred down the line to the man with the handset. Bryce wasn't up to date on the specifics of how that worked, but he knew enough that most handsets only had one opening where a person's voice was supposed to come out, but... this one had a pair of speakers, and now that he looked at the wire again, there were two of those as well, wrapped around each other. It was a receiver and a transmitter, he suddenly guessed. Tesla just couldn't leave well enough alone, could he? Always had to 'improve' things. "double bollocks," he said, and then winced at his foolishness. They'd have heard that as well.

"Search the compound," the nameless voice said, "You're compromised. Don't let them escape. Who knows how long they've been listening."

Bryce tossed the handset down to the roof tiles and dug the half-used wax cylinder out of its cradle. The needle dug a furrow in the wax and he winced, but he got the thing put away in the case at his belt that Tesla had provided, without any further damage, though he fumbled the clasp. He shoved his notepad back into its pocket in his coat and rose to a crouch, making his way stoop-shouldered back toward where he'd climbed the wall to the roof. It would be folly to try to climb back the way he'd come, Bryce realized and stopped, torn. He scanned around, hoping for some other way down to present itself. Shouting was coming from the building across the courtyard, and he could trace the phone wire from his perch on the roof over to where it entered the far building. This Shaw must have been in that building. Bryce cursed silently, but it didn't help him see a way out of the trap.

He pulled his revolver from a coat pocket, a small weapon, only .36 caliber, and designed for concealability more than anything. Still, it had six shots, and he might soon find himself needing them all. "Up there!" a voice shouted from the courtyard below, and Bryce flinched, dropping to his belly on the roof tiles. A bullet buzzed through the space his head had been an instant earlier. Good shooting, in the dark, an absent part of him mused.

He could hear boots on paving stones, and then shouts from the building below him. If there was a way up from inside, soon men would be flooding the rooftop. The roof Bryce occupied was a lower level of a split-roof, with windows behind him that were dark, and he hadn't bothered about them before. There was a small chimney only a dozen feet to Bryce's left, and he made for it, then cursed and started back for the bulky telephone. But now, he could see the bobbing, flickering glow of lanterns as men came into the upper floor of the building. Bryce collapsed back to his belly and turned, somehow managing to hook the telephone apparatus with a boot and bring it scraping over the roof tiles to him. He winced at the sound it made, but he couldn't think of anything else to do. If it was out in the open like that when men hit the rooftop, it would give him away.

He hauled himself forward, keeping low so that he wouldn't be outlined for whoever was still below in the courtyard and tucked himself behind the chimney just as a man appeared in one of the windows. Bryce held his breath and clutched his pocket-revolver in close, a two-handed grip for better accuracy.

The man caught his foot on the sill and tumbled, the lantern spilling from his hands and sending a wild gyration of light behind it. There was a second man at the window, gun drawn and scanning the roof. Bryce could see the man's eyes widening... what had he seen? The fallen lantern hadn't shattered, instead it rolled down the slight angle of the roof and illuminated the chimney from the side. Bryce cursed to see his shadow playing out on the white wall of a building across the courtyard.

In a rage he scooped up Tesla's 'portable' phone and flung it one handed at the first, fallen man, who was just rising to his knees. Bryce didn't know where he found the strength, but for the surge of anger at himself for his foolish expletive on the phone, he'd be safe and gone by now.

The man on the roof with him caught the boxy contraption right in the breadbox, loosing his wind in a great rush, and collapsing backward to the roof with a crash of breaking tiles. He was dazed, and no longer paying attention, the slope of the roof causing him to roll lengthwise toward the edge. The man tried to scream, when he realized he couldn't stop, but he first had to draw breath, and dazed as he was, it was a wasted effort. He pitched over the edge before he got more than an anemic bellow out of his mouth, which cut off when he hit the stone two stories down.

Bryce grinned and shot blind around the chimney, hoping to keep the man in the window in cover so that he could close, perhaps leap through the window himself. It was only a handful of yards across the sloping roof. But as he stood, his foot slipped. The tiles broken by the first man had started something akin to an avalanche, the whole roof was moving, and Bryce fell on his ass, and nearly rolled off as the first unfortunate had.

Thankfully he still had his wits about him, and he spread his arms and legs, but still he was sliding along with a fair amount of the roof toward the edge. He tried to shove himself backward with his feet on the tiles, but his kicks just sent the tiles forward under him, hastening the slip of the roof. He cursed as he went over the edge, but a glint of metal where he'd cut the rubber insulation from the telephone wire caught his eye and Bryce lunged for it even as his legs fell out from under him. The wire hit him in the armpit, and if not for his coat, might have bit through his skin. For a long moment he bobbed on the wire, feet dangling. There were half a dozen men in the small courtyard, pointing upward with revolvers, and Bryce thought he was dead.

Then, the cable snapped, and Bryce grabbed at it in desperation. He let out a warbling, ululating yell of exhilaration as he swung across the courtyard on the Ring's own private phone cable. Of course, he hadn't spotted the window at that point. Bryce smashed through in a fountain of broken glass and wooden framework, letting go of the cable and rolling as he landed. The courtyard was narrow enough that his flight hadn't ended with him in the fountain, but instead inside the very building in which Shaw had been making his telephone calls. Bryce shook his head and surveyed his surroundings. A bedchamber of some kind, he saw.

A woman, dark of hair, had the sheets pulled up to her chin. Bryce grinned, brushing glass off his shoulder as he got to his feet. "Sorry for the intrusion, Miss," he said. A gunshot broke some of the glass that Bryce hadn't cleared from the frame. He flinched, but the bullet embedded itself harmlessly in a wall. And then came a shout.

"Hold your fire, you dogs," Bryce recognized it as Shaw's voice. "That's my Eve's bedchamber."

Bryce blinked and his eyes swivelled back to the woman in the bed of their own accord. She had a tiny double barreled derringer in her hand, pointed at his head. He cursed and ducked toward the door. A bullet buzzed past his ear, and the second threw up splinters ahead of him when he faltered. He very nearly threw a shot in her direction in retaliation, but thought better of it, crashing into the door with his shoulder and smashing it from its hinges.

He stumbled into a well-appointed hallway, with an alcove holding a bust of some famous personage a few feet to his right. At the end of the hallway, a man with a pistol stared at him in shock. The other man had his pistol in hand, but pointed at the ground, it began to rise. Bryce was faster, and squeezed off two shots before the man could properly take aim. His first shot went wide, blasting hole in a painting of a rural scene of some kind. The impact knocked the frame off the wall onto the—he supposed—Ring agent. His second shot was better aimed, and took the other man in the center of his chest, just as the man finally brought his pistol to bear. The painting falling on him, and Bryce's second shot, sent his adversary's bullet into the center of the forehead of the stone man to his right. There was shouting from that end of the hallway; likely it lead to the courtyard and more enemies. Bryce ran blindly in the other direction, coming almost at once to the foot of a staircase.

He cursed and took the stairs three at a time, legs pumping and lungs heaving like a bellows. A bullet zipped by behind him to send up splinters from the railing. As he made the top of the stairs, he spotted two men coming his way down the second floor hallway. Bryce held his pistol out in front of him and fanned the hammer back, blasting out four shots in quick succession. It was a desperate move, and only the first bullet found a target, spinning the closest man sidelong into his companion and tangling them both up. Bryce charged ahead, kicking the pistol from the second man's grip as he struggled with his mortally wounded compatriot, then landing a blow to the man's chin with his fist.

The momentum of his charge lent a power to the punch Bryce hadn't expected, and the man fell unconscious to the fine carpet. They had just come out of a doorway and on instinct, Bryce scooped up one of the men's fallen pistols and ducked through the doorway into a study of some kind. He slammed the door shut behind him with his shoulder and scanned the room. There were bookshelves lining the walls and a heavy mahogany desk with a pair of chairs in front of it. Bryce darted across and grabbed one of the chairs, spun it around and wedged it under the doorknob to keep out his pursuers. It was far from a perfect solution, so he stuck his shoulder into the side of the closest bookshelf and tumbled it down across the doorway as well.

Still not perfect, but better. Now at any rate he could stop for a few moments and let his brain catch up, devise some sort of escape plan. It had all been instinct and luck to this point, he well knew, and if Bryce Larkin wished to get out of this place alive, now, he had to think. Not his finest point, he would be the first to admit.

He made a quick inspection of the room beyond his initial cursory glances and noticed the bulk of a telephone. Likely the same one Shaw had used mere minutes—perhaps only one, at that; it had all gone so insanely fast—earlier.

There was a small stove to the side of the heavy, carved desk, and Bryce went to it first, but found only ashes. It must have been where this Shaw disposed of incriminating documents, still, there was a faint hope there might be some for further intelligence in the desk drawers, which were of course, locked. His borrowed pistol made short work of the first lock, and he riffled through the papers inside, looking for God alone knew what. It was foolishness, part of his mind screamed at him, but another, calmer part begged to differ. He grabbed a sheaf that looked interestingly like a list of names and folded it, shoving the paper into his breast pocket on top of his notepad.

A crash came from behind him, in the direction of the door, and he whirled, but the impact hadn't moved the toppled bookshelf but an inch. A shout came for him to surrender himself, and Bryce laughed richly in response, and squeezed off a round from his new, fresh revolver. A responding fusilade bore holes in the door, and zipped past him. Bryce turned to the window and kicked it open with a crash of breaking glass.

The voice he recognized as the man Shaw bellowed for someone to cut him off in the alley, and Bryce cursed his hastiness as he stuck his head out the window. It was still clear, but that couldn't last much longer. Clear of people at any rate, but full of rubbish and debris, as were most New York alleyways. Bryce quickly made a sign of the cross, praying for a soft landing, and leaped into the rubbish heap below the window.

Whatever it was that broke his fall, it was softer than paving stones at least, and crunched and crackled under his weight. He was unhurt, and up and running a moment later. A figure popped out into the mouth of the alley ahead of him, and Bryce began to bring his pistol to bear. The voice stopped him dead in his tracks. "Larkin?" the man said, genuinely at a loss.

Bryce was no less shocked. "_Barker?"_ he gasped.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" They said as one. "I thought you'd taken Jill and left for England!" Bryce said, still smarting from that revelation of Roan's.

Barker shook his head in exasperation. "And I thought you dead," he said. "We've no time for this. Hit me, make it look good!"

"What!" Bryce said.

"I'm undercover for Her Majesty's Secret Service you twat!" Barker hissed. "Now hit me, and get out of here!"

Bryce grinned, "Careful what you wish for!" he said, and slugged Barker in the stomach, and then in the jaw. Barker slumped to the ground, still conscious, but just barely. "Want another?" Bryce inquired, quite willing to go on, if Barker was.

"Just get out of here before you die a second time," Barker managed to get out, between gasping for breath.

"Be careful yourself," Bryce said, none too believably. "I'd hate for Jill to end a widow." With that, he ran out into the street. The Ring's men were spilling out of the courtyard behind him, and he heard yet more gunfire, though none of it came close enough for him to hear the buzz of the projectiles through the air. Someone had once said 'there is no greater thrill to be fired upon with no effect,' and Bryce found it close to God's own truth as he turned a corner into another street. He kept to a run, until he found what he was looking for, and leapt into the waiting hackney coach Roan had hired in the case of trouble.

He didn't even have to tell the man where to go. In the aftermath of the firefight, his hands began to shake, and he'd split his knuckles on Barker's jaw, it looked like. Still and all, a most useful night's work. Bryce briefly considered a detour to a pub, but then, he remembered. Castle was built under such an establishment; ramshackle or no, he suspected there was whiskey enough there to get blind stinking drunk, once he'd made his report.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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A/N: I know, I know... an all Bryce chapter? What was I thinking! We'll get back to Chuck's predicament next update. See you in ~7 days! I love getting feedback, so please, drop me a review if you've got the time. I promise, I won't take it personal if you just want to yell at me for no Chuck or Sarah section this chapter.


	27. Chapter 27

A/N: What! Two days between updates? I felt bad about the Bryce only chapter, so... back to Chuck and Sarah.

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Chapter 27:

When they came across the cabin, Sarah's first instinct was to storm the place immediately, but the sun was still up and she knew it for worry over Chuck, not her usually keen sense of tactical awareness. Even if the trees occluded much of the light already, giving the forest around them a sort of dim glow that suffused everything that wasn't shadow, full dark would give her much better cover. And there was Marshal Casey to consider. Whatever his strengths in a gunfight or a brawl, she doubted he was anything other than a moose trampling through the woods. In full darkness, there would only be his footsteps to give them away. All that black he favored would be useful for him to remain unseen as well, but only if they waited.

"We'd better wait until dark," Sarah said, despite the pull she felt to just barge in pistols blazing. Part of her just wanted to go in and tear them apart with her bare hands. She found a tiny clearing in the underbrush and squatted down, scooping a small handful of muddy soil and spreading it on her face.

Casey grunted and followed suit. "Good idea, Walker." he said as he began smearing mud on his face as well. They waited in silence as the sun set, and darkness began to fall. "Any thoughts on a plan of attack?"

"I'll sneak around back, and do what I do best," she said.

"So, I wait for gunfire, and then burst in the front?"

"No. Wait for my signal," Sarah insisted. "Not gunfire."

"What signal, then?"

"Wait out front with the shotgun. Then, when the survivors run screaming in terror out the front," she said, and her lips drew back to bare her teeth briefly. It would be her last smile for a good while; her pearly whites could give away her location. "you can cut them down from the cover of darkness."

Casey nodded slowly, coming to a new understanding of his companion. "Good hunting," was all he said.

"Wake up, Chuck," a faraway voice said, and his eyes snapped open. He shook his head and frowned at Dr. Fleming.

"Well," Chuck said. "When do we start?"

Fleming's eyes widened. "Chuck," he waved his hand in front of Chuck's face. "Are you alright? We've been at it for an hour. Don't you hear that? They're on their way down for you."

"What?" Chuck said, nearly choking on the words in surprise.

"I hope you've got a plan," Fleming said. The door opened and a tall reedy looking fellow peeked his head in. Chuck locked eyes with the man and shivered. "Yes," Fleming said. "That's him. Good luck."

Chuck swallowed nervously, as the torturer ordered a pair of men down the stairs for him. Chuck didn't even think of resisting, and each man grabbed him under one arm, hauling him up the stairs like a sack of grain. Chuck didn't particularly feel like walking to the torturer.. room... chair, whatever... and the two men didn't seem like carting around close onto ten stone worth of watchmaker was troubling them, so he let himself be dragged.

They took him around the side of the cabin and dragged him up the back porch and into the cabin itself. The place was fairly run down, though there was a very impressive preserved moose head over the fireplace. Part of him thought that was funny. He didn't think there would be moose this far south. There was a table with a handful of chairs. The table was covered in the remains of a modest supper, and a litter of playing cards, and most of the chairs had a coat hung over the back. There were two or three lanterns hung near the doors and windows, and a fire roared in the hearth despite the heat, though that had eased somewhat with the arrival of sunset.

A doctor's valise much like the one Devon used was sitting on the fireplace, and a metal rod of some kind was sticking out of the flames beneath. The men's bedrolls were arrayed along one wall haphazardly. The men broke him free of his inspection of the single room cabin, shoving him roughly into a wooden chair in the center of the floor, set away from everything else. One of the men took a length of rope and tied Chuck's wrists to the armrests.

"Well," Chuck said. He scarcely knew the words that were coming out of his mouth. "I'll say this, the service here is to _die _for."

"Think you're funny, do you?" one of his captors grunted and back-handed him across the face. The world reeled and Chuck blinked tears out of his eyes. He screwed his eyes closed tight, and took a breath. When he opened his eyes, the cabin was gone.

He was back at the Roark mansion, watching the Tesseract engine spin. But it had stopped. He could see Bryce off to one side, in the process of hurling Roark bodily into the machine. Roark had already come off his feet, and hung in place. Bryce's mouth was fixed in a grim expression of pain and rage, arm outstretched where he had shoved the older man away. Chuck turned back toward the cube balanced on its point. And saw himself sitting in front of him, staring up blankly. An honest-to-God out of body experience. He shuddered in spite of himself. Chuck blinked and the cabin was back.

"Ow," Chuck said, but not from the slap. He had to struggle even to remember the blow. The man who'd struck him grinned, showing the gold teeth that had replaced his front teeth.

"More where that came, if you run your mouth again," the man said, not as a threat, but as a matter of fact.

A new voice spoke up then, and Chuck's head lolled to find the man. He was tall and heavily muscled, and wore a grotesque scar where one of his eyes had been. Chuck flinched at the sight of him. "My name is Vincent Smith, Mr. Bartowski. I'm told you've seen some things in your life. I've seen some things too." He shoved aside the man with the gold teeth and stood in front of Chuck, leaning forward ominously. "You tell me the things you've seen, and I won't show you the things I've seen."

Chuck swallowed nervously, trying not to stare at the gaping eye socket. "I respectfully decline."

Vincent smiled wanly, and it did awful things to his scars. "I thought you'd say something like that," he said, stepping back to one side. "I _respectfully _ask you to reconsider. Hal, our opening arguments."

"Huh?"

"Means hit him."

"Oh, sure thing," Hal reared back and clocked Chuck in the jaw. He saw stars.

And slowly, they revolved into familiar constellations, but different somehow. No, just occluded by some kind of craft. He remembered the picture in the hospital and the name came into his head, just like that. A different craft this... Sputnik. It was astonishing. Russia had managed to orbit the first manmade satellite? That was improbable enough that it jerked him back to the present. He shook his head to clear the vision. "Ow," he said. "You hit like my fiancée."

Hal slugged him in the belly and Chuck rocked forward, wheezing breath back into his lungs. "God, that was a compliment, you ass!" he coughed.

Vincent laughed darkly. "Again."

Chuck flinched away from the incoming fist, but to no avail. Hal's fist hit him in the temple, and his eyes went out of focus. The heavy leaden weight of the future, balled up in the center of his mind where he didn't have to look at it all the time, exploded outward, tendrils going every which way, sinking into the fabric of his mind, demanding his attention in ways he was ill-prepared for. Chuck screamed. There was no vision this time, but he slumped, closing his eyes as the wonder and horror of the future laid itself bare to him.

Hal looked at his fist, perplexed. "I didn't hit him _that _hard."

When Chuck came back to himself, he blinked up at his captors. "You shouldn't have brought me here," he said. "If you'd kept riding through the night, some of you might have lived to see the sun again."

Hal wound up for another strike, but Vincent lurched forward. "Wait," he said. "Explain yourself."

"I... see the future," he said. "That's the whole point of this, isn't it? I see the future. None of you lives to see the dawn. That's the future. I'll swear to it, that's the truth."

Hal's face scrunched up in fear for a moment, but it shifted to rage very quickly. "Piss on that, and piss on you!" He struggled against Vincent's grip, and the one-eyed man shoved him toward the door.

"Go cool off," he said. "Visit the outhouse while you're at it, with all your talk of piss. None of us want to see that."

Hal grumbled a curse and stomped out and down the back stairs toward the outhouse. Vincent watched him go, chewing his lip for a long drawn out moment. Finally he turned back to Chuck. "Tell me true boy, and I won't let De Smet use his hot irons and pincers on you."

"I know," he said, as if that was the stupidest thing anyone had ever said. He nearly tried to reach up and poke a finger at his temple. But no, his hands were still bound to the chair, that was later he was seeing. He shook his head instead. "I did mention? See the future? Ringing any bells, Vincey ol' pal?"

Vincent lashed out, trying to strike him. Chuck moved with the punch, timing things perfectly. Even in his bonds, there was enough slack for him to move. Vincent's punch barely ruffled his hair. He blinked and looked at his fist. "You did that on purpose..." he said.

Chuck grinned. "Proving a point," he said. "Nothing you do can surprise me tonight."

"Really," Vincent growled, pulling his knife and holding it an inch from Chuck's eye.

Chuck cocked his head and looked up at Vincent curiously. "You ever think about an eyepatch."

The knife shook in his hand, and then Vincent growled a curse and turned, heaving the blade. It stuck in the wood paneling above the fireplace. "De Smet!" he said. "Do your worst."

Chuck's lips quirked up in a half-smile. "Hasn't your friend, Hal, been gone a _while_?"

Sarah lurked in the darkness behind the outhouse. She had left her duster with Casey, along with her regular boots. She'd stuffed her mask and her tabi shoes in the deep pockets of the Duster before they left New Orleans, she'd thought it paranoid at the time, only to be proved wrong. She moved through the darkened swamp with hardly a sound. Her night vision was working well enough that the little bit of starlight was enough for her to choose her footing carefully, so as to avoid sticks or twigs that might snap and give her away. She heard Chuck scream and her hand tightened on the grip of her wakazashi over her shoulder. It took an effort of will to stay where she was, to not rush in, out sword and maybe get herself and Chuck both killed. Patience and circumspection were her watchwords. There was no room for the slightest error. She squinted in the dark and saw an altercation through the window, then a man stormed out. Nearly as tall as Chuck, more heavily muscled, and working his knuckles as if he'd just hit someone. She ground her teeth, silently.

That man had laid his hands on Chuck. She undid the baldric that held her short sword on her back and rested the scabbard and blade against the outhouse briefly, before spinning the baldric into a makeshift noose, and grabbing the top edge of the outhouse. This was the moment of truth. Sarah had no way of knowing if the dilapidated outbuilding would support her weight, but it was a risk worth taking. The musclebound Fulcrum gang thug was nearly at the outhouse when she peeked over the edge of the roof, then hauled herself up silently in the dark. The man's night vision hadn't had time to adjust, and the change from the lighted interior to the nearly pitch-dark out behind the cabin had him mostly blind. He didn't see the movement as Sarah perched atop the outhouse, noose in hand, dressed in blacks and dark greys. But the wood creaked.

"What's that?" he said, looking up dumbly and aiding the noose in it's attempt to slip around his neck. She flicked her wrist to pull the knot tight, and jumped down off the back of the outhouse. The rope sang with tension. His heels drummed against the outhouse door futilely. Voices came from the cabin. "Hal?" the voice said softly. "What is that sound? You tryin' to kick the outhouse down or something?" There was nervous laughter, but it trailed off when Hal made no answer.

Two men came down the back steps, bullseye lanterns in hand, the reflectors sending beams of light around questing. "Hal," one of the men said again, voice raised to carry, but not quite a shout. "Hal, where the hell are you? Make some noise, man!"

The light from one of the lanterns fell across the outhouse door. Hal had stopped kicking, and his tongue poked grotesquely from the horrible purple ruin of his face. "Jesus Christ in heaven," one of the gang said. "Get over there and cut him down."

The second shook his head, but still pulled a bowie knife as long as his forearm. Then a flicker of silver took the lantern out of his hands with a crash of breaking glass, and an instant later, a cross shaped blade bit him in his knife hand, and he dropped that as well.

A third flash of metal in the dark slashed open the first man's jugular. He gasped and staggered, dropping the lantern so he could clutch at the wound. "Shit! Frank, where are they coming from?"

With both lanterns down, the only illumination was a flickering glow from the two small windows in the rear of the cabin, and just a hint of starlight filtered down through the forest canopy from a moon waning down to a quarter. "I see him, Jimbo!" Frank shouted, slapping leather, drawing and firing all in one motion. It would have been impressive if he wasn't aiming at thin air. He fired his six-gun dry, trying to track his target by the muzzle flares. "Jimbo, cover me while I reload. Jimbo?" Frank turned and his eyes widened. He gaped in horror. Jimbo was down on his knees, a foot of blade sticking out just left of his sternum. There was no sign of the attacker. Frank fumbled the breech break of his revolver open and dumped the spent casings as he ran. His fingers shook as he tried to tug fresh rounds out of the bandolier across his chest. "Attack!" he shouted. "We're under attack!" Frank pounded toward the stairs and the safety of the back porch. "Everybody run—ghhk" His cry of warning trailed off in a gurgle as a black-clad arm swung out of nowhere to grasp his chin. He felt another hand in his hair for moment that stretched out to the end of his life. Frank heard his spine snap, and the clatter of the gun as it fell from his lifeless fingers. He never saw who killed him, just like Hal and Jimbo.

Vincent grabbed the last spare lantern and pulled his pistol. The back door was still open, but aside from the flare of Frank's gunfire, they hadn't been able to see much. He played the beam of the lantern out and almost immediately the light fell over Frank's body. He lay face up near the porch, but after a moment, the remaining members of the Fulcrum gang realized, he was laying on his stomach; his head had been twisted near all the way off.

The lantern beam caught Jimbo in its clutches next. He was still kneeling, at an angle from the porch, so they could see the blade curving up from his torso. The tip of the sword seemed to point at something, and the patch of illumination followed it, almost as if on its own, to reveal Hal's corpse hanging from a noose of black rope from the outhouse door. It had just the effect it was intended to.

DeSmet and the other survivor screamed and ran for the front door. Vincent cursed, and whirled, shouting after them. "No, you idiots, it's a trap!" He took two steps in pursuit before giving it up, they were too far ahead of him. "Stop you fools!"

But they paid him no mind, barreling out the front door, blind to the danger. A shotgun barked once, and Vincent saw one man go down. DeSmet howled in terror, Vincent heard the ratchet of the lever action on a Winchester 1887, and DeSmet crumpled to the ground with a scream that ran counterpoint to another roar from the unseen gunman out front.

Vincent turned back to the rear of the cabin to see a slim figure holding a bloody sword, masked and wearing about the oddest boots he'd ever seen. One gloved hand came up and tugged the mask off, revealing rich blonde hair tied back in a complicated braid of some kind, and familiar blue eyes. Vincent growled under his breath. "You," he spat on the plank floor at his feet.

"Aww, you remember me. I'm flattered. Hello Vincent, long time no _see,_" Sarah said with a smirk, and winked her left eye at him, the same eye she'd carved out of his face with a butter knife three years earlier.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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A/N: And now you know how Vincent lost his eye.

Shameless self-promotion time. There is another little preview of the Bunker sequel, _Chuck & Sarah vs the Recruits_,up on my blog, which reveals the identity of one of said recruits... if you're into that kind of thing.

Reviews are always appreciated, and constructive criticism is always welcomed. Next chapter in a few days, probably.


	28. Chapter 28

A/N: Failed to meet my self imposed update deadline, sorry about that, but Jobsearch 2011 and family in town have taken up all my writing time.

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Chapter 28:

Vincent growled and spun, sliding along the floor on his knees to fetch up behind Chuck, still strapped to his chair. He flicked a six-shooter out of the holster at his waist and grabbed Chuck, using him as a shield, ducking down behind the chair, the barrel up under Chuck's chin. Sarah drew her Peacemaker as soon as Vincent started to move, but he was too close to Chuck and her finger froze on the trigger. It was a shot she could have made, if it had been any other man tied to that chair. "Sarah don't—"

"Not another word, future boy," Vincent said, and flicked his eye toward Sarah. "Drop the gun, drop the sword."

Chuck caught Sarah's eye and glanced pointedly at his left wrist, then winked. Sarah's expression didn't give anything away, thankfully, as she walked into the cabin. She was used to this kind of standoff, at least moreso than Chuck anyway, and knew better than to let her eyes flick down as Chuck had suggested. Instead she nodded.

"Okay," she said. "You win, alright. Don't hurt him." She bent her knees squatting down to set her pistol and sword on the floor. As she bent down, her sightline shifted and she could look at his wrist as he had bid her without the movement of her eye being as obvious. The armrest had come loose somehow, maybe he'd been working at it the whole time she'd had Vincent and the others distracted, but what was he planning? She stood.

"Kick the gun over to me," Vincent demanded, and once she had done as he asked, the one-eyed man turned his gun on her, began reaching for the second pistol. Chuck moved suddenly, shoving his left wrist forward enough to tug the rope between the pulled-apart joint of the armrest. The hand came up and across, and he grabbed for Vincent's gun. The last surviving member of the Fulcrum gang pulled the trigger, and Sarah flinched, but the hammer came down on the meat of Chuck's pinky, which he'd shoved expertly between the hammer and the cartridge.

Chuck grimaced and shifted his grip, taking the gun across his body and driving his head back hard into Vincent's face. The grizzled outlaw's nose snapped and blood sprayed, some getting in Chuck's hair. He lurched up out of the Chair as Vincent reeled, but kept a grip on his pistol. Chuck turned, swinging the chair up and battering Vincent with it. The gun flew free, taking a tiny chunk of Chuck's pinky finger with it, and clattering to the floorboards near the table, and well away from either of them. Chuck took a grip on the chair with both hands and shoved it at Vincent's gut like a lion tamer.

Sarah wasted no time in bending to retrieve her sword, instead she poked the toes of her tabi shoes under the rayskin-and-silk handle and kicked it back up into her hands. She flowed forward, coming at Vincent from the side, sword in front of her in a wicked lunge. The outlaw grabbed the chair and hauled on it, pulling Chuck directly in line with the tip of Sarah's still bloody weapon.

She cringed and shifted her grip, letting the blade spin over her fingers and down, nearly out of control, but no longer diving for Chuck's vitals. Sarah pivoted on her left foot, shifting her sword around behind her back into her left hand for a high arcing slice. Her right foot went out behind her in the spin to take Chuck in the back of the knee and get him out of the line of her blade, but he had somehow anticipated the movement and already ducked down and to the side. Sarah's kick met nothing but air and she wobbled slightly to catch her balance, and her swing came a moment later than she intended.

Vincent, now in sole possession of the chair, swung it in an awkward parry. Had Sarah not kept the blade razor sharp, it might have bounced free, but instead it bit into the wood of the swinging chair, sticking fast. His grin twisted the scarring around his empty eye socket, and Vincent threw the chair aside, his greater strength hauling Sarah off-balance and staggering away before she could release the grip.

Sarah recovered her balance and turned to see a scene from a nightmare. Vincent had a knife in either hand, advancing on Chuck. And Chuck stood between her and the last Fulcrum man alive. She still had her derringer in the small of her back, and two more shuriken to either side of it on her belt, but Chuck was _between _her and Vincent. He was going to get himself killed!

Vincent took a quick slash at Chuck's left shoulder with his right-hand knife, a move to disable the arm and give him free reign to stab his opponent's vital soft bits at his leisure. Sarah had no illusions that Chuck could stand up to a man such as Vincent, unarmed as he was, and her heart began to break as the knife began its arc.

It never came anywhere near him. Chuck flinched, covering his face with one hand and his crotch with the other as he turned sidelong, elbow poking out awkwardly, and knee coming up. The elbow and the knee cracked Vincent in either wrist, and the knives clattered to the floor.

Vincent stared incredulously at his now-empty hands. Chuck peeked at him from between his fingers, then turned his head to grin and wink at Sarah. He drove a jab into Vincent's jaw, and followed it up with a solid right to the gut, falling easily into a ready stance lifted almost perfectly from the Marquis of Queensbury woodcuts.

Sarah felt her jaw drop open and she covered her face with one hand. Vincent growled a curse and came forward again, lurching slightly in anger and coming around with a looping right. Chuck was moving before the punch even got started, and he twitched his head two inches left. Vincen'ts fist missed him by two and a half. He dodged the follow up by taking half a step back and to the right. Vincent's fist whistled by Chuck's head again, ruffling his curly hair but still not connecting. The outlaw kept coming forward, swinging and swinging again. Chuck barely moved at all, but it was enough to dodge each blow. Sarah shook her head in wonderment. It was almost as if he could see the punches coming... her eyebrows rose; that was exactly what she was watching. He could see what the man was going to try next, and he was dodging before the blows were even heading in his direction.

Finally, Vincent's initial flurry worked itself out, and the man paused briefly to catch his breath; now it was Chuck's turn to advance. He went forward behind a textbook-perfect series of jabs, popping Vincent's head back and keeping him on his heels, but doing little damage. The one-eyed outlaw tried to put up his dukes, like Chuck had, but Chuck's continued jabs, coming quick as a trip-hammer kept pulling the defense down and leaving an opening for a quick right. The same sequence happened twice in a row. Jab, jab, jab, jab, Vincent put up a meager defense, another jab, this time to the gut brought the hand down; then Chuck followed with a looping cross that staggered Vincent a step to Chuck's left.

Sarah went for her derringer, the fight had moved enough that she might be able to find a clear shot at Vincent. Chuck was no longer directly between her and a target.

Vincent took the opportunity away, staggering into a rush; he was going to wrap Chuck in a bearhug and bear him to the ground, where Chuck would have less room to maneuver. Sarah opened her mouth to shout a warning, but Chuck darted back a step, hit Vincent in the jaw with a backfist, before turning his hips and driving a hard left into the outlaw's temple. Vincent's rush turned into a headlong stagger straight past Chuck, and he hit the table in a crash, knocking poker chips and playing cards every which way as he flew over the edge of the table and pulled the rickety wood thing over on top of himself.

Once more, Chuck was standing between Sarah and Vincent, unintentionally protecting the lone surviving member of the once-formidable Fulcrum gang from his well deserved .45 caliber fate. "Chuck, get down!" she shouted, and he rounded on her, eyes wide in fright. Sarah frowned in confusion for a moment. And Chuck rushed at her, lowering his shoulder as he charged. She was frozen momentarily in bewilderment, until she managed to catch a glimpse of Vincent around Chuck's lanky frame. The man had managed to retrieve his fallen six-shooter, and she was staring down the barrel. Chuck hit her in a flying tackle just as Vincent squeezed the trigger.

The roar of his .45 was followed almost immediately by another, louder blast from the front of the cabin. Casey, they'd forgotten about Casey. But Vincent hadn't, it seemed, still huddled behind the upended table. The inch thick oak was up to the challenge of stopping the smaller buckshot. Chuck drove Sarah to the ground under him, and Vincent's shot buzzed past his ear.

"Drop the gun!" Casey bellowed, working the lever back on his shotgun to chamber another shell. Sarah shouldered Chuck off of her and sat, trying to sight in with her derringer. Vincent cursed and bolted for the back door. Sarah opened fire, and missed. Casey's next shot from the lever action 12 gauge blew up another gout of wood chips but didn't take the outlaw down. Vincent's rush toward the back door gave Sarah an open shot, and she racked the hammer back on the derringer before squeezing off another round. Chuck growled a curse and grabbed her sleeve and hauled her back to the floor as Vincent threw a blind shot back over his shoulder. The bullet flashed through the air where her head had been an instant later and buried itself in the log wall behind them. Sarah's shot, pulled off-target by Chuck's sudden movement, slammed into the meat of Vincent's calf and he staggered into the door frame before lumbering off into the darkness.

Casey bolted across the cabin, and emptied the last shell in his shotgun's tube magazine into the night after the one-eyed outlaw. Sarah scowled and started to get to her feet, but Chuck had an arm around her and wouldn't let go. "I'm fine," she said a little testily. "You can let go now. We have to go after Vincent. He's still got a gun."

Chuck shook his head pointed. Casey stood in the doorway, using the toe of his boot to nudge a six-gun up against the wall. "Mr. Smith seems to have dropped something," the Marshal grinned. Sarah's mouth dropped open.

"Dr. Fleming's downstairs," Chuck said. "Casey, could you go make sure the doctor's alright. They worked him over pretty good."

Sarah huffed and left off trying to shake free of Chuck's arm. They heard a low whistle of appreciation. "Remind me not to get on your bad side, Walker." Casey shouted from back behind the cabin.

She rounded on Chuck. "You sure know how to spoil a rescue attempt," Sarah grumped. "I was supposed to save _you_."

"What are we, keeping score now?" Chuck said.

"You should have just dropped down and let me shoot him," Sarah said.

Chuck shook his head. "No, I ran the probabilities. Well, I guess you're right. My chances were better your way. But the chances of _both_ of us living were better the way I did it."

Her anger vanished. "Wait, you saw... what, all of that, the whole fight? From Vincent holding the gun to your head, all the way to him running off?"

Chuck nodded. "Yeah, and a thousand other potential futures. I figured I should steer away from all the outcomes where you got shot in the stomach, or the heart, and then you tried to get back up after I tackled you and nearly took a bullet in the face. What were you_ thinking?_"

Sarah blinked. "Well obviously, I don't see the future," she said, and then cocked her head. He looked a little surprised by that. "You do _remember _that not everybody can look forward in time like that, right?"

Chuck laughed shakily. "Of course, yes. Of course I do. Remember."

"Liar," Sarah mused. "How good _is_ that future vision right now? Do you know what the Ring is planning?"

Chuck grinned. "Sure," he said. "What do you want to know?"

She punched him in the arm. "Spill it!"

"Fort Knox is where it begins," he said, voice more subdued. "We should really wait for Casey and Dr. Fleming. It's starting to fade a little, and I think he might have to put me under again if I'm going to remember all the details."

Sarah chewed her lip briefly. "So, how long do we have until Marshal Casey gets back with Fleming?"

"At least a minute or two," Chuck said, eyes slightly unfocused in the present, most of his concentration on the fading glimmers of the future he was getting. "He's going to make a sweep to be certain Vincent doesn't try to double back, but odds on that actually happening are so very small that they approach zero. Really a variety of factors at play, but I'd say longer more likely than shorter, why do you ask?"

She grabbed him by the ears and tugged his face forward to her, crushing her mouth to his. It was a desperate, kiss, not so much borne out of lust as relief, and she pulled away after long enough that Chuck lost sense of time. She pressed her forehead against his and slid her hands around to link behind his head so he couldn't pull away. "Do you have _any_ idea how worried I was? I thought they had killed you."

Chuck smiled and kissed her softly. "I know. And I also know now isn't the best time. But will you marry me? For real, I mean," he said.

Sarah's jaw dropped open. "It's a little sudden," she said, and blushed slightly; that had been his line until just a few seconds ago.  
"Well I'm not saying we drop everything and run off to find a priest," Chuck shrugged. "The Ring is going to try to collapse the economy, among other things, so we should deal with that first, but this is the last time in about eighteen months that your answer is a 50/50 tossup, and I didn't want to ask _knowing_ how you'd answer. I mean, what's life without risk?"

Sarah shook her head, and fought to keep from matching that giddy smile of his. "Yes, I'll marry you," she said, and couldn't really believe the words were coming out of her mouth as they sat there on the wood floor, with the three men she'd killed for him still lying out back behind the cabin. She pulled her hands back and folded them in her lap, still gloved so that the sheen of her ring wouldn't attract attention in the darkness. Sarah tugged the thin black cotton off and twisted the ring so that the diamond showed. "So..."

"Here, take it off," Chuck said, reaching out his hand. Sarah pouted slightly, and tugged the ring off her finger before dropping it reluctantly into his palm. Chuck grinned and gripped her hand gently, slipping the band back onto the finger it had just vacated. "There. All on the up-and-up."

Sarah rolled her eyes, and then darted forward to taste his lips again. She could feel Chuck smile against her lips, and his tongue came out to meet hers as they deepened the kiss. All too soon, however, Chuck pulled away. She growled under her breath and was all set to wrench him to the floor and pin him there so he couldn't pull away again, when Chuck cocked his head toward the door behind him. Sarah frowned, she hadn't heard anything, until Casey appeared in the doorway, half-dragging half-supporting Dr. Fleming up the back stairs onto the porch. She turned back to Chuck. "That's uncanny."

Chuck shrugged nonchalantly, and she rolled her eyes again.

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: Next Chapter, Chuck explains the plot. Yes, all of it.


	29. Chapter 29

A/N: Man, this chapter was murder to get written. Sorry for the long wait between chapters.

Previously: Chuck spoils Sarah's rescue by beating up Vincent himself. The Fulcrum leader is driven off, and Chuck prepares to undergo hypnosis in the hopes that he can remember the future clearly enough to predict the Ring's endgame. Also, he proposed to Sarah, and she accepted.

* * *

Chapter 29:  
"What are they planning," Sarah said. It was scary to see Chuck like this; he'd been a little odd before, during the fight, and after, for that matter—she grinned down at her ring momentarily—but now that Fleming had put him back under, there was an absent note in his voice that put a cold tingle up her spine the more she thought about it. The... listlessness in his every feature and movement since Fleming had started spinning that watch in front of Chuck's face had her more on edge than she'd been as she stalked through the night, or killed those first three men. He didn't sound like himself. There was no life in his voice, or, worse still, in his eyes.

"I don't understand," Chuck said in the same toneless voice.

Fleming tsked. "Be more specific, miss."

"Agent," Sarah corrected, "It's Agent Walker, of the United States Secret Service, not 'Miss.'"

Dr. Fleming shrugged a little sheepishly. "Well I didn't know all that, did I?" he said, shaking his head. "My apologies, agent Walker. But I believe our young man's difficulty is in your choice of pronoun."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Chuck," Sarah said again. "What is the Ring planning in their bid to take over the country?"

The whole plot came spilling out in that same horrible monotone, except when Casey interrupted for a clarification of some extraneous point. Sarah tensed every time the Marshal did that, as there was a corresponding shudder that went through Chuck as he was pulled deeper into his visions of the future. She glared Casey into silence after the second time, and hoped that Fleming knew what he was doing.

"Chuck, please elaborate," Fleming said. "How exactly will the Ring destroy the economy?"

"They're going to steal the gold out of Fort Knox, in two days time. Secondary teams will launch commando raids against the Mints in DC, SanFrancisco... and Carson City—" Casey interrupted again to demand a definition of 'commando', and Chuck went on at length; Sarah mostly tuned it out, concentrating on the notes she was taking notes in a bizarre combination of languages that very few people would ever be able to decipher. Since she couldn't have this kind of knowledge just sitting out in the open and easily readable should someone stumble upon her notebook, seven-language word-salad was the best she could do on short notice. Chuck's rambling explanation of what a commando was petered out, and Sarah glanced up at his blank face and suppressed a shiver. She really wanted this to be over. Sarah grit her teeth and began taking notes once more as Chuck went on. "The resulting market crash coupled with a run on the gold in the bank vaults nationwide when everyone tries to get their money out of the banks, there won't be enough actual gold to pay it. It will break the dollar. The whole economy will forfeit to the Ring."

"Why is the market going to crash?" Casey asked, and Sarah glared. Another extraneous question, they didn't need a seminar on economics.

Chuck shrugged. "Lot of reasons, miscellaneous economic factors. The Pullman Strike, an upcoming spike in unemployment. The collapse of the railroad speculation boom in another six months. That coupled with a run on gold which is coming either way... But the history books call it the Panic of 1893. Big P."

Casey grunted. "Yeah, well what do they call it if we stop it?"

Chuck blinked and his eyes fluttered in his head. He started to shake, and Sarah surged forward. "Chuck, relax," Sarah said. Fleming moved to help, and Sarah's glare could have melted a battleship's hull. Dr. Fleming put his hands up defensively. Though he hadn't seen Sarah's handiwork with the Fulcrum gang first-hand, they hadn't moved the bodies until the academic was propped up near the fire, and Casey had made an offhand comment about the three out back being 'all Walker,' and Fleming knew enough to avoid having that gaze turned on him for any longer than he could avoid.

Sarah murmured in Chuck's ear, talking him through a meditation technique she had learned as a girl, and his convulsions eased.

Fleming cleared his throat. "Chuck, if you feel up to continuing, blink twice.

Chuck's eyelids snapped open and closed the requisite number of times. Fleming arched an eyebrow at Sarah, and she managed a nod of begrudging assent. "Please, continue," Fleming went on. "They call it the Panic of 1893 if we win," Chuck said, still in the same absent toneless voice. "It's not supposed to start wholesale until the winter of '92, january of next year is when it really hits. If the Ring has its way, then President Shaw will... oh god..." Chuck shivered and went suddenly rigid, every muscle tense.

"Spit it out, Bartowski," Casey growled, and Sarah lunged across Chuck and punched Casey right in the jaw."

"Stop it! You utter idiot!" Sarah growled. Casey rocked back and clutched his chin, but merely grinned at being struck. She should have put more muscle behind it. "Can't you see looking that far ahead is tearing him apart. Just shut up, Casey! Fleming, bring him out of it!"

Casey grunted. "Just sounds like this 'Shaw' guy needs a pre-emptive bullet to the brain."

"Sarah," Chuck said. It was the first time since Fleming put him under that he had addressed any of them by name, or acknowledged their presence beyond answering their questions. "It's alright. This plot of the Ring's. It's a nexus point. Like a fork in the road. We could go down one fork and, I won't say everything winds up smiles and kittens, but down the other, the _world_ dies in Nuclear fire in less than seventy years.

"_What_ kind of fire?" Fleming said.

Chuck waved that away, and blinked. Fleming's eyebrows tried to climb off his forehead. Chuck shook his head and came out of the trance without assistance. Sarah's eyes went wide at that as well. "We have to get to Fort Knox, stop them. That's first." He rubbed his temple absently. "I hope I can remember the rest, when the time comes. I can already feel it fading, creeping back into that great big lump of unwritten histories in my head, weighing me down. It felt good to be light again..." Chuck trailed off, and slumped backward suddenly. Sarah was closest, and managed to catch him, break his fall and set his head down gently. He was unconscious.

Casey frowned. "Is he supposed to do that?"

Sarah barely spared him a glare as she checked her fiance's heartbeat. It was steady, at least, but she was still worried. Though he'd come back to himself there at the end, he should have needed Fleming's help to come out of the mesmerist's grasp. For what seemed like the first time in years, she felt suddenly out of her depth. Fleming and Casey spoke briefly, and Sarah ignored them, looking around briefly until she found a blanket to drape over Chuck. She frowned and went out to her horse and hauled in the saddle-bags for a makeshift pillow. Sarah took the opportunity to change back out of her tabi shoes (the soft leather soles wouldn't stand up to prolonged use, and finding replacements was always a pain), reclaim the shuriken she'd tossed, and retrieve her scabbard and baldric from where she'd turned them into a noose.

Sarah set up her bedroll next to Chuck and peered down at him, concern etching lines in her forehead. They'd pushed him too hard, getting what they knew of the Ring's plans out of him. What if he doesn't wake up?

"Well," Casey said. He'd been sitting at the nearby table and watching her, she realized. Fleming had curled up with a saddle of one of the dead men's horses as a pillow, and was snoring softly like an old campaigner. "If he's not up by first light, we'll tie him across the back of one of the horses and haul him back to Baton Rouge. But we need to be moving before dawn. If I didn't think the horses would all break legs trying to get through the swamp in the dark, we'd set out now. We might just make it if we can... 'persuade' a train conductor to miss a few stops along the way."

Sarah stroked Chuck's hair out of his eyes, and nodded. "I'll send warning to the Secret Service. They might have someone closer who can warn the garrison at the fort, and put the Mints on high alert."

"That'll be good," he mused, rubbing two days of stubble on his chin. "But I don't want to be left out of the gunplay."

Sarah shook her head, "You won't, Marshal," she said. "You know too much now. Effectively, you're drafted."

He grunted. "Wouldn't be the first time," then a shrug. "I'll take first watch, if you want to put a cool cloth on his forehead. I hear that's what you do when girls faint."

Sarah pursed her lips in a scowl. "Are you calling my fiance a girl?" There was a hint of warning in her tone.

Casey spread his hands defensively. "No, just... ah, I didn't mean anything, honest to God. I just thought it might help. I've no experience with this... what was it Fleming said? Mental shock? Ask me to patch up a gunshot or a knife wound, and I can put most field doctors to shame. But what the kid's going through? I just don't know..."

"Boy?" Sarah managed a thin smile. "He's older than I am. Is that how you think of me? A slip of a girl?"

Casey arched an eyebrow. "Do you really want an answer to that? Think just because I'm a gruff, wily old army veteran, I don't know what a girl in love looks like? He'll pull through."

"He'd better," Sarah said.

She stewed over that thought for a while, curled up with an arm and a leg over Chuck's still form, and fighting a losing battle with herself. Sarah flicked an eye in the direction of the front porch, where Casey had gone to stand watch. He struck her as thorough enough that he wouldn't just stay on the front. The Marshal would probably make a patrol of the cabin every few minutes, and she couldn't expect him not to notice her absence eventually.

Still and all, she felt helpless as she lay there with an unconscious and possibly comatose fiance, and resolved herself to action. She nudged Chuck's head to one side, and he didn't stir while she fished her blacks out. Sarah spared another glance around the single roomed cabin before shimmying out of her clothes and into the traditional garb. She'd want every advantage if her hunt turned up anything worthwhile. Sarah waited until Casey finished his brief trip around the cabin and returned to his spot on the front porch, before she slipped out the back and disappeared, just another moon-shadow in the night.

* * *

Vincent couldn't risk building a fire, in case the blond bitch was tracking him. If it had just been her and him, Vincent figured he'd have had an even chance, but there had been no predicting that greenhorn Bartowski was a bare knuckle boxing savant. Something to take up with his contacts in the Ring, pointedly, he imagined as he drew his bowie knife down a heavy strop. Vincent rolled his eye, puns, the pain must have been getting to him. He eased his leg where the bitch had shot him, and listened to the sounds of the swamp, crickets, cicadas, the occasional owl in the distance. Then the unmistakeable triple click of the hammer of a pistol being drawn back, and he felt cold metal against the back of his neck. "Ah. Didn't run far enough before I made camp then. Pity. I didn't even hear a thing on your approach. Well done."

"You never should have laid a hand on him," was all she said. The gunshot shattered the chorus of natural sounds. For several moments, the swamp was shocked to utter stillness, before the crickets came back.

Sarah returned to the cabin, no longer moving so slowly and carefully. Her hands were shaking now, as they hadn't been when she had the job still ahead of her. Casey was sitting on the porch, the chair leaned back on two legs, and he had his feet up on the railing. "Chuck, and Dr. Fleming?" she said.

Casey grunted. "Asleep," he said. "Our friend Vincent?"

"He won't be a problem," Sarah said.

Casey grunted again, with a subtly different tone. "Dead?"

"Use your imagination."

He nodded. "Had to be done, or Vincent could tip off this Ring that we're on to their plans."

Sarah shrugged one shoulder and met his eyes. "Not why I did it."

He nodded in understanding. "Your watch should have started twenty minutes ago," Casey said. "He give you any trouble?"

Sarah shook her head. "Just that he was smart enough not to light a fire," she explained. "Took almost three hours to find his camp."

Casey grinned. "You feel any better?"

"No," she said, "Not really."

"Go," he said, nodding back toward the cabin, where Chuck was sleeping. "You haven't slept, and we need to move out early."

"What about my turn at watch," Sarah said. "And you can't have had any time to rest either."

"Watch for what?" Casey said with a grin. "Vincent? Oh, right. You killed him. Go. Sleep, Walker, that's an order."

"You think you can give me orders, Marshal Casey?"

He merely rolled his eyes and made a shooing motion before leaning his chair back on two legs and tipping his hat forward to cover his face. Sarah arched an eyebrow, when, moments later, he began to snore softly. The chair, balanced precariously as it was, never wavered. She shook her head and went back into the cabin, curling up fully clothed next to Chuck. Well, more on top of than beside.

* * *

Chuck blinked, and then frowned. Something was wrong; well, not so much wrong, as very very nice-feeling, which he hadn't expected when Dr. Fleming hypnotized him in the basement of the cabin where the Fulcrum gang held them captive. He didn't know what he had expected from being mesmerized, but waking up to a warm, delightfully soft body splayed over him hadn't been even in the running. He looked down and was relieved to be looking into Sarah's face. She was curled up half next-to half on top of him. She had a death-grip on his shirt-front and a leg thrown across him. Her other arm was tangled in his hair. Chuck tried to sit up, gently rolling Sarah off of him. She growled in her sleep and burrowed into his chest more insistently.

Chuck frowned and cleared his throat. "Sarah?" he said softly. "What happened?"

She instantly pushed herself up, hands resting on his chest. Chuck tried to burrow backward into the floor when he caught the look in her eyes. "You're okay!" Sarah whispered fiercely and then Chuck was being kissed so hard he couldn't think. Not couldn't think straight, Sarah had had _that _effect on him from the first; at the moment, all there was in the world was her.

Finally, she pulled away. Chuck's brain ground back to work, and he had just begun to formulate his first cogent thought, when she slapped him. Hard. "Don't you dare worry me like that again!"

"Ow, Sarah! What did I do? Ow," Chuck said, rubbing the raw handprint on his cheek.

"What did you _do_?" Sarah growled. Despite the vehemence of her tone, she still hadn't raised her voice above a whisper. And then she was kissing him again. It was a shorter kiss this time, which, he was sort of mixed up about. He was thankful, because he was still struggling to remember how to breathe and work all his parts; but he didn't want to _stop _kissing her just because he needed something as trivial as air. And, he was a little worried there was another slap coming. He flinched in anticipation of a second blow, but Sarah was frowning down at him. "Wait. What do you mean?"

He shook his head in bewlinderment. "What do _you _mean, 'what do I mean?'" Chuck said angrily. She put a finger to his lips.

"Shh," she said. "You'll wake Casey and Fleming. You don't remember why I might want to slap you silly?"

"I don't remember anything after Fleming put me under," Chuck said.

Sarah frowned. "Which time?"

"There was more than one?"

Sarah's eyes shot wide as saucers and she gasped. It was, Chuck thought, a first in his experience. He'd seen her in many moods, but shocked speechless was a new one. "You don't remember _anything?"_

"What do you mean anything," Chuck said. "Oh god we didn't..."

Sarah blushed crimson. "What?" she said, struggling to master her reaction. "No, not... nothing like that." She shook her head. "Might as well say it straight out," Sarah raised her left hand, bearing the smallish diamond they'd bought on the way south. She tapped the ring with her thumb. "Not a cover anymore."

"I proposed?" Chuck said, and it was his turn for his eyes to go wide enough a tiny part of his brain was worried they might pop out onto his cheeks.

Sarah nodded, in what Chuck had enough experience with her to recognize as a dangerous manner. "And then you _forgot _about it."

Chuck coughed into his fist, stalling for time as he wracked his brain for a segue she might actually find distracting enough to let him forgetting a proposal go by. "Wait, wait, wait. You said _yes?_"

"At the time, you said it was a toss-up," she said. "But I didn't have to think about it too hard." Sarah's smile lit up the dim cabin, then she frowned. "You really don't remember anything?"

Chuck shook his head helplessly. "Care to fill me in?"

Sarah nodded. "I wrote it down," she explained, shifting around in her pack and coming out with a notebook. She straddled his hips as she handed the notebook over. Chuck grunted and he looked up at her. "Do you mind?"

"Mind what?" Chuck glared at her, and Sarah sighed. "Fine," she grumbled and pivoted on one knee, spinning to sit next to rather than on top of him.

Chuck glanced at a couple of pages, and rolled his eyes. "And for those of us who don't speak... what are those squiggly things?"

"Japanese ideographs," she said. "Also there's some Russian and—"

Chuck waved that off. "I do remember how many languages you know."

"Do you remember I don't particularly enjoy being interrupted?"

Chuck winced. "Sorry," he said. "Really, I wasn't thinking."

Sarah shrugged and grinned. "It's alright, Chuck. I was teasing you."

"Oh," he said and brandished the notebook. "So, what did I say?"

"You told us the Ring's plans in pretty astonishing detail," Sarah explained on for a few minutes, and elaborated on Chuck's own role in the showdown with the Fulcrum gang.

Chuck looked a little green when she finished.

"What's wrong?" She said. "I thought you'd be excited. You're always saying you want to take the fight to them, force an ending to this shadow war I've been fighting."

"It's not that," Chuck said, "It's not that I want to fight. I mean, I can barely hit the broadside of a barn, you know that. Casey and Fleming heard me say all that about their plans, and possible futures?"

Realization flooded. "You think they'll snitch you out to Roan and you'll end up in some dank cell somewhere under constant hypnosis so the government can use what's in your head to chart the course of history. And it's a perfectly reasonable fear... except for one thing."

"What's that?"

"You're engaged to be married to the Grandmaster of a secret sect of shadow warriors that can trace its lineage back nearly a thousand years," Sarah whispered this, so low that he could scarce hear her even a foot away. "Do you honestly think I'd let them do something like that to you?"

"But there's just the one of you," Chuck said. "If they try, how could we possibly hide from—"

"It's a big world, Charles Bartowski," Sarah said. "two people could get lost very easily, even without some of the things I know. But it won't even come to that. Worst case, I have to have a 'talk' with Fleming and Marshal Casey. I'm sure they'll see things my way."

"You're going to... talk... to them," Chuck said.

"I can be very persuasive," Sarah said.

"Oh I'm well aware of that," Chuck replied. "I just thought your more... effective techniques would be reserved for your fiance."

Sarah punched him in the shoulder. "Hey," she said. "what kind of girl do you take me for?"

"Ow," Chuck said. "I was _teasing,_ woman."

"Well," Sarah smirked. "Allow me to apologize." She pounced; it wasn't actually much of a move, with her sitting so close, but Chuck had no time to think of the proper term for it.

Chuck surged up, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her before she could descend upon him again. Sarah was a little startled by the move, and it bought Chuck enough time to turn the tables on her, rolling her onto her back. Sarah giggled against his mouth and clasped her legs around his waist. Her hands dipped to tug his shirt-tails free of his breeches.

Chuck's eyebrows rose. "Hands, hands! Hands in new places..."

"It's alright," Sarah grinned, pulling away for a moment. She went on in a saucy whisper. "We're engaged now."

"Ahem," Marshal John Casey said, snapping both of their heads around to where he was leaning against the wall. "We've got a bit of a ride back to town, and you two would do better to canoodle on your own time."

Sarah pulled her hair forward over her ears to hide how red they were turning, and climbed off of her fiance. The rest of her was crimson, from her hairline to where her neck disappeared into her shirt. Chuck wasn't much better, but Sarah recovered faster, vaulting to her feet and gathering her weapons and knapsack in a blink. She put a hand out to help Chuck to his feet and arched an eyebrow when he waved her off.

"No thanks," Chuck said. "I don't think I can stand up right now..."

Sarah frowned for a moment, "Are you okay?" Then her eyes widened and she couldn't meet his eye.

Casey barked a laugh, and shook his head. "You two need to just get a room and have done, I'm sick of the pair of you and I've only met you yesterday. But like I said, it'll have to wait. We've got an appointment in Kentucky."

She glared at his retreating back, and couldn't come up with anything to say to that. The man was, after all, correct. They didn't have time to waste letting their base desires cloud their minds. She'd have to talk to Chuck about that, but, as she darted a glance at him, she decided that just that moment probably wasn't the time for the conversation. And they hadn't _really _talked about whether Chuck believed her that they were engaged now. Amnesia or not, Sarah certainly considered them so. God above, she'd nearly torn him out of his clothes there on the cabin floor with hardly a second thought for potential onlookers. She fought off another damnable flush and followed the Marshal outside.

* * *

Chuck joined the others outside a few minutes later, once he had an acceptable percentage of his blood back in his brain, and accepted the reins of a piebald horse of some kind. He wasn't going to show his ignorance of horses by visibly checking to see if it was a boy or a girl horse, and he didn't really know the exact terminology there anyway. Still, he was practiced enough at horseback riding from his ride with Sarah through the Ohio countryside, that he managed to swing himself up into the saddle without embarrassing himself unduly. Marshal Casey put his boot into his black horse's ribs and set off at a trot. The sun had yet to crest the horizon, Chuck saw, but the gray light of the predawn hours was enough to see by as long as they didn't venture deeper into the swamp. Casey and Sarah retraced the path they'd taken in pursuit of the Fulcrum gang and a captured Chuck, with surprising speed.

He didn't think he'd been unconscious that long, but judging by his admittedly muddled memory of waking up in the cabin root cellar to find that nearly eight hours had passed. The trip through the swamp was much quicker than that, but it still felt like it took forever, with the ever-present heat not cut in the slightest by their proximity to water.

When they came out of the swamp hours later, Chuck was surprised to find the sun barely passing its noonday peak. They headed directly to the train station at a gallop, and only the fact that they'd changed horses repeatedly and left the extras the Fulcrum gang had 'donated to the cause' at the edge of the swamp, allowed them to make it across the town in time to watch the train finish accelerating out of the station.

"Dammit all," Casey said and spat off to one side. The horses would never have survived an attempt to catch the train.

"Now what," Chuck said.

Sarah grinned and half-turned in her saddle. "Dr. Fleming," she said. "Your help has been invaluable. If we had time, I'm sure Marshal Casey could clear up your legal troubles, but as you're already a wanted man, I think here is where we part company."

"What?" Fleming said. He looked lost and blinked several times. "Of course, I'd put that nasty business out of my mind. Why do you say we should part ways. If I'm _already _wanted, what significance does that..."

Casey grinned, when he figured it out. "Ah," he said. "I like your style, Walker."

Chuck frowned. "I don't understand either."

Sarah shrugged. "This next part, I don't think we could smooth over with the Baton Rouge constables."

"What next part?" Fleming demanded.

Casey pointed to a nearby steam engine, with just the hopper car behind it. "The part where we steal that train," he said it so matter-of-factly, that it was several moments before Chuck's eyes widened and he glanced at Sarah for confirmation. The mischievous grin was all the answer he needed. Casey and Sarah spurred their horses ahead.

"This cannot end well for anyone," Chuck sighed, nodded farewell to Dr. Fleming, and gave chase.

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: Belated history lesson (for me too):

Fort Knox wasn't the official gold depository until the 1930s when an executive order made it illegal to own gold coinage, and forced many people to sell their gold to the government in order to fight hoarding during the Great Depression. I didn't think to do that simple bit of research, before making Fort Knox an integral part of the plot and so, we've got a rather huge anachronism/plot hole happening here, which is something that I've tried to avoid wherever possible, and I don't feel like completely reworking the next couple, already-mostly-choreographed-action-set-piece_, _chapters. So, if anyone has any ideas on how I can write myself out of this hole, PM them to me.


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: Phew! Finally got this down. Next chapter is a _doozy!_

* * *

Chapter 30:

Chuck had assumed that the whole 'stealing a train' plan would be implemented immediately, but once Dr. Fleming was out of sight, Sarah reined in. Casey grunted. "I need to go get some supplies from my place," he said.

"I need to send a telegram back to headquarters," Sarah said. "Meet back here in thirty minutes?"

Casey gave a lazy salute and wheeled his black horse, putting the animal to a gallop, and nearly running down an old man who was slow getting out of the way. The Marshal veered around the grey-beard at the last moment. The old man cursed him and shook his fist. Sarah grinned minutely. "Come on," she said. "We need to make this quick."

"But you don't have your code book," Chuck protested.

"I know," Sarah shrugged and turned her horse toward a Western Union telegraph office. "We'll have to break cover. I don't expect to be in Baton Rouge much longer than it takes to send the message, and it's doubtful the Ring have any more men in the city. New Orleans is a different matter, of course. They'll likely have a team preparing to assault the New Orleans branch Mint, but even if they did send them after us here, we'd already be gone. It's a risk."

"The Ring might get word to the men preparing to attack Fort Knox," Chuck said.

Sarah nodded, "Yes, that's the risk. But Roan needs to know the extent of the threat," she waved her notebook with its completely indecipherable mish-mash of languages. I'll send the message in Russian. That ought to buy us enough time to get to the Fort and foil the main raid."

Chuck frowned, but couldn't find fault with her logic. "Does Roan speak Russian?"

"No, but he reads it okay," she said, tossing her reins to him and slipping off her horse. "He'll know it's from me. Wait here, and keep an eye out."

She didn't wait for him to answer, disappearing into the telegraph station for a few minutes. She returned and vaulted back into the saddle, and then took back the reins of her horse. "That was fast," Chuck said.

Sarah nodded, and pointed to the sign. 'Western Union telegraph and telephone services' "I managed to cut out the middle-man. This new interstate telephone system is really going to catch on, I think. Maybe I should buy some stock."

Chuck shivered as he flashed. "You have no idea," he said.

Sarah half-turned in her saddle so she could read his expression. "Did you just...?"

He grinned in lieu of answer, and they turned back to the trainyards.

Casey was late. Or, it seemed that way; Chuck and Sarah's interlude to the Western Union office had taken a bare half the allotted half-hour, and Casey took another fourteen minutes to return.

"Cutting it close," Sarah remarked. "I thought we might have to leave without you."

"Don't even joke," Casey said. "You don't want to try and leave me out of the gunplay, Walker. It just wouldn't be ladylike."

Sarah rolled her eyes and threw him a highly offensive hand-gesture. "How's that for ladylike? Let's move."

Chuck moved between the train-cars as stealthily as he knew how. Which, quite frankly, wasn't all that stealthy, but his job wasn't exactly vital to the plan's success. It was, he was sure, mostly to keep him out of the way, while Sarah and Casey subdued the engineer. Still, uncoupling the cars from the locomotive would be vital to giving their stolen train the speed they would need to get to Kentucky in anything less than two days. Which was pretty much all the time they had.

Chuck threw the lever and bent down to kick the coupling apart. He didn't particularly relish the idea of putting his hand down in between the heavy metal flanges that currently held several hundred tons of train and locomotive together. The coupling came undone after two or three good kicks, and Chuck made his way forward, pulling himself up into the locomotive's control area. He froze. Sarah and Casey, both with kerchiefs over their faces stood locked in a standoff with the engineer, who had a shotgun. Chuck hastily fumbled his own disguise into place and tried not to attract attention.

The engineer growled. "I've got two barrels here, one for each of ye!"

"If we wanted to kill you we'd have done it," Sarah said. "We just need someone to work the engine. It's a matter of life and death."

The engineer, a skinny man with a thin scraggle of lank grey hair poking out from under his conductor's hat, and a suspicious glint in his eyes. Chuck sighed heavily. "This is why I said you should have used the badges, and not the bandanas," he said. "Sir, we're federal agents, and we need to commandeer your train."

"Bull-puckey!"

Cuck rolled his eyes. "Come on, Sarah. Casey?"

Casey grunted finally and dug in his pocket. "US Marshal Service," he grumped. "We need your help."

The man's eyes widened. "Well, why didn't you say so?" he said, turned and shoved his shotgun back into the rack above the windscreen and reached for the levers to one side. He spared a glance for Chuck. "You uncouple the cars?"

"Yes, sir," Chuck said. Diplomacy not being Casey's strong suit, he figured he'd try some.

"Well, where exactly are we headed, if I might ask?" the engineer said.

"Fort Knox, Kentucky," Sarah said as she pulled down her mask. "We've got a gold heist to stop."

"Well hot damn," the conductor cackled. "The boys'll never believe this one."

"Actually," Sarah said and produced her own badge. "You can't tell them. Because this never happened. Secret Service."

If anything Bill's grin just grew wider. The man was taking it all much better than Chuck had, when she'd sprung the whole Secret Service bit on him.

* * *

Roan finally hung up the handset and let out a frustrated sigh. He'd been struggling to get in touch with the managers of the branch Mints across the country, warning them all to beef up their security, to change guard rotations, and to be on the lookout for attacks. A mint wasn't exactly a low-security concern in the best of times, and only with overwhelming force and complete tactical surprise could the Ring have hoped to take all of the facilities on the list Walker had developed. She wouldn't say exactly _how _she'd developed it, other than to reveal the deaths of every last member of the Fulcrum gang, which was a good enough explanation for him, given her track record over the years.

Thankfully, he already had Larkin and Tesla on an express train to Kentucky last night, so there would be someone there to warn the gold reserve. That was the biggest problem. Several years earlier, Fort Knox was meant only to be a temporary holding facility for the gold deposits of half a dozen nationwide private banking concerns, but somehow, word had leaked out, and first President Cleveland, and then his successor, President Harrison had considered it too risky to move the gold back out of the place, instead opting to increase the security on the base. It was now, Roan considered, the worst kept secret in the history of the United States, and that wasn't a good thing.

He checked the time. Bryce should be in the Fort by now, and Roan sighed and lifted the handset yet again, asking the operator for the base commander at Fort Knox. His hackles rose when the operator informed him that she couldn't connect him. "Why not," he demanded.

"The line appears to have been disconnected."

"You mean cut," he said. "Somebody cut the phone line to the base?"

"Yes. That seems to be the case," the operator said, managing to remain much calmer than the director of the Secret Service. Roan growled a curse and slammed the handset down, ending the conversation. He stood and ran to the telegraph station inside Castle, donning the headset and scribbling down the message, which he translated into morse code and transmit. He tagged a 'send acknowledgment immediately' to the end of the warning and crossed his fingers, waiting for a response. He was still waiting ten minutes later, when he slumped in his chair and banged his head on the table gently. Larkin didn't know when to expect the attack, and he was right in the middle of it. Walker knew when the Ring was going to hit the fort, but she might not get there in time. And here he sat, in the most advanced intelligence gathering operation of the 19th century, helpless. God, what a mess. He looked at his watch and sighed. Already late afternoon, with sunset looming. He found himself filled with dread for what news the morning would bring.

* * *

Their 'captive' train conductor knew more about the railroads than would fit in a fair sized book, which was lucky. The strike at Fort Knox was due around noon the next day. Chuck's hypnosis-fueled retelling hadn't given them any real details other than the time and the place, but Sarah insisted that would be enough. Chuck had come to trust her word on just about everything over the last couple of weeks, and this was no different. The conductor, Bill he said his name was, had Chuck and Casey trade off shoveling coal into the steam engine. It was sweaty back-breaking work, and Chuck would just as soon have sit next to Sarah and got some rest.

He still wasn't exactly feeling chipper. Not only was the time he'd been hypnotized a total blank spot in his memory, he felt as if he'd been chopping wood or some other strenuous physical labor the whole time. Once he'd woken up, it didn't feel like he had slept at all. So when it was once more Casey's turn with the shovel, Chuck sighed in relief, slumped next to Sarah and leaned his head against the relatively cool metal of the side of the locomotive.

She made a disappointed sound in the back of her throat, and Chuck craned his head, arching an eyebrow at her. Sarah shrugged. "Watching Casey work isn't as much fun," she said.

Chuck blinked uncertainly and Sarah grinned at him. He grinned. "So... me working up a sweat equals fun for you?"

Sarah waggled her eyebrows. "Not yet..." Chuck went crimson when her meaning struck him, and a moment later, Casey turned and dumped water out of his canteen over their heads.

"Keep it in your pants, Walker," he said warningly, before turning back to shoveling coal.

Sarah spit her wet hair out of her mouth and glared at Casey's back for a moment, until Chuck looped his arm around her shoulder. Despite him being damp with sweat, Sarah shrugged into the embrace and laid her head on his shoulder.

"Get some sleep if you can," Bill the conductor said. "Next stop is Elizabethtown, Kentucky."

"Where?" Chuck asked.

"'Bout ten miles south of the Fort," Bill said. "I figure you din't wanna have me drive right off the tracks up to the Fort?"

"Oh, right," Chuck said. "I guess it's a good thing Sarah didn't kick you off the train back in Baton Rouge then."

Bill grinned, showing gold teeth, and nodded. "Glad to hear somebody say it."

Sarah looked at Chuck out of the corner of her eye. "Just you wait, Mr. Bartowski," she said. "Just you wait until I get you alone."

Chuck was, thankfully enough, the only one who heard that, soft as it was, over the sound of the steam locomotive. He tried not to let her notice the nervous swallow her remark spurred. He had enough to worry about without Sarah starting up the teasing again.

* * *

Bryce awoke with the rest of the Fort, when the trumpeters blew reveille. The commanding officer, a Major Bauer had claimed to be too busy to meet with them last night, and had found him and Nikola bunks in the officers quarters. He hurled off the covers and dressed hurriedly, barely taking time to comb his hair down with his fingers and scrub his teeth. Maybe the desperation would come through in his unshaven, somewhat unkempt features. Tesla had somehow managed to sleep through the trumpet call, and Bryce had to rouse the scientist with a bucket of cold water. Well, maybe he didn't _have _to do that, but it was the fastest way he could think of.

Tesla glared at him, sputtering and wiping sodden hair out of his eyes. "I have an alarm clock," the inventor said, pointing to a small contraption near his bedside.

Bryce shrugged. "It's obviously not working," he said. "Reveille just blew, which means its—"

A horrible clatter came up from the tiny clock on Tesla's bedside table, and the man gave him a level stare for a moment before putting his hand over the clapper and silencing the alarm. "You were saying?"

"Whatever, we need to get to the CO's office before he gets 'busy' with something else," Bryce said. Tesla took little more time getting dressed than Bryce had, and they headed across the yard to the main administration building of the Fort, where the commanding officer, a Major named Bauer, had his office. They arrived only a few minutes later, and were stopped by the man's adjudant, little more thatn a secretary. "I'm sorry sirs," the reedy little man said. "Major Bauer is quite busy. You'll have to wait."

Bryce fumed. "Busy," he demanded. "It's not even half past six, what could he be _busy _with at this hour. This is a matter of the utmost importance!"

The Lieutenant shrugged helplessly. "I really do apologize, but my orders were explicit, not to awake the Major until nine of the clock. It's his standing order."

"The man's asleep!" Bryce shouted, nearly apoplectic.

The man shrugged again. "If you want to wait, I can get you some coffee? But if I wake him early, he'll put me in the stockade!"

Bryce shook his head. This was ridiculous. "Who's second in command, then? Maybe he'll be up before it's too late."

"Captain Panzer is overseeing the men's morning drills," the man said. "It will be a couple hours before he's done."

"Go get him," Bryce demanded. "Don't any of you realize how important this is? I'm with the secret service."

"Well, we haven't got any counterfeit bills here, lad," the adjutant proclaimed, and went into the office for the coffee urn.

"No, just a great lot of gold," Bryce grumbled and followed after. He could use something to distract him from the comedy of errors that would see the Ring's plans to fruition. The coffee certainly did the trick in that regard, but not in a good way. The coffee urn hadn't been cleaned since Bryce was in his early teens, he'd wager, and he nearly gagged trying to get the horribly bitter drink down.

They were kept waiting what seemed like forever, though the wall clock said it had indeed been less than three hours. Colonel Bauer was an apple shaped, balding man, who still smelled of whiskey. Bryce shook his head; how had this man been made commander of such an important military base? There was more gold stored here than half a dozen men could spend in _two _lifetimes, and this was who the military put in charge.

"Major Bauer," Bryce said, "I'm Agent Larkin with the Secret Service. We have information that your Fort will come under attack very soon, possibly within hours."

Bauer laughed. "Good! I could use the excitement!"

"Sir, I think you need to take this threat more seriously," Bryce said, trying to curb his frustration. It was a terrible struggle not to leap across the man's desk and strangle him for his idiocy. "The men involve have killed god knows how many people. In fact they're directly responsible for my father's murder, among others. Please, you have to do something."

"I can tell you're distraught, Agent... Larkin was it?" Bauer said. "If it will allay your fears, I'll let you speak to my second in command. He's quite capable of throwing back any attempt to breach our defenses. Come along," Bauer said, hauling himself up out of his padded armchair and heading for the door. He led them through the inner courtyard and across to a smaller building, where it seemed the man's direct subordinate had his office. Bryce shook his head once more, it didn't make sense to have the two men officed so far apart. Nothing at this fort seemed to run very efficiently.

Finally they arrived, and Bauer opened the door without knocking.  
"Hugo!" Bauer said. "I've got a man from the secret service says we're going to come under assault any minute."

Major Panzer was a huge man, Bryce saw, well over six-feet and thick with slabs of heavy muscle. Just being in the same room as the man would have been intimidating, if not for the fact they were on the same side. "Well, that's news to me. The boys'll make short work of anyone stupid enough to try and take the walls, sir."

"Oh, it's not the walls they're after," Bryce said. "It's the gold."

Panzer blinked, obviously taken aback by that. "We should have been rid of that gold years ago, I knew it would make us a target eventually," the Major said, turning away and leaning his hands on his desk. "You said a matter of minutes?"

"Major Panzer, surely you're not worried? This is all a load of bunk I tell you. No one could make off with that gold. The vault is too well-guarded. Tell him, Hugo, tell my young friend here that we're perfectly secure. No one could possibly make off with the gold."

"Well, sir, I don't believe I can say that with any degree of honesty," Panzer said, turning, six-shooter in hand, hammer back. He smirked, and shot his commanding officer in the chest. Everything seemed to slow down as if stuck in thick syrup. Bryce gasped and started reaching for his own weapon, even though he knew there was no time. Panzer would gun him down before he could ever—

Instead, Panzer tossed the just-fired gun at Bryce and put his hands up in surrender. Bryce fumbled and nearly dropped the weapon, in shock and by the time he had the gun securely in his hand, Captain Panzer was shouting "He's killed the Major!" Bryce's eyes shot wide, and then his vision reeled from the smoking gun in his hands to men pouring into the room with pistols at the ready. Soldiers all across the fort were probably come running, but they obviously hadn't seen what really happened, for even these first responders had their guns pointed at Bryce, not at Major Panzer.

Nikola pointed at Panzer accusingly. "Liar! It was you!" he said.

Panzer kept his hands raised. "Who's holding who at gun-point, sir?" the big Captain said reasonably, before raising his voice. "And don't bother trying to shoot me," Panzer opened his hand to show them a handful of paper cartridges, already removed from his weapon.

"Didn't you hear him? That's as good as a confession!" Bryce said. The soldiers ignored his protest, one holding a pistol right in his face, and Bryce dropped the gun helplessly, letting them divest him of his other weapons. As the men were tying his and Tesla's hands behind their backs, one of the soldiers spoke up. "This wasn't the plan, Cap'n."

Hugo nodded. "I'm well aware. I wanted the Major to be a laughing stock, with the gold smuggled out right under his nose. We didn't anticipate Montgomery's lapdogs showing up. I'll want to get that information out of them later. Until then, gag them. I don't want any of the garrison we haven't co-opted talking to them. Can you handle that sergeant?"

"Yes, sir."

Panzer waved the salute away before it even started. "Leave off, we won't be in the army much longer anyway."

Bryce slumped between his two guards, barely even fighting when they shoved a gag between his teeth; this was a disaster. How had the Ring managed to so perfectly infiltrate the fort? It boggled the mind. Further, it didn't fit the intelligence they'd intercepted from the Ring's private phone line. Was this a robbery or something else? At least it looked like they'd live long enough that he might overhear more and be able to piece together the mystery. Panzer didn't seem to think it a risk speaking in front of them. Bryce concentrated, trying to will his ears more efficient; they were close enough that he could hear most of what was being said without straining, even though the men kept their voices low.

"Is the device ready?" Panzer said to one of his subordinates, and Bryce saw the man nod. Uncorrupted soldiers were coming, they had to be, but he didn't know how much good it would do, with the Ring's point man so thoroughly ensconced in the fort's command structure. If they lived through this, he figured somebody's head would roll for that. "Good, we need to accelerate our time-table. Pass an order to the men to assemble out here, so I can give them a rousing speech in memory of our fallen leader. Make sure _our _men get to work on the vault, that should give them the distraction they need to knock the wall down without anyone overhearing."

"If only we had a couple dozen Gatling guns set up to wipe them out, we wouldn't even need the Tesla device."

Panzer's answering grin chilled Bryce to the bone, then the man turned to the door. "We heard a gunshot, is everything... my god, Major Bauer's been shot!" Another pair of soldiers was even now poking their heads in.

"Indeed so, Corporal. I have the matter in hand, the perpetrators in custody. Take them to a cell for now," the Captain said, in a carrying voice. "Black murder does not go unavenged! I'll need a company of volunteers to escort the prisoners to the county judge for trial," then he lowered his voice for the sergeant turned Ring operative. "I suppose I don't need to tell you which are the volunteers I want?"

"No sir, of course not, sir!" The sergeant saluted this time, since he was being watched by some honest soldiers, and turned, motioning to the men holding Bryce and Tesla's bonds. They were dragged off into one of the outbuildings and thrown unceremoniously into a cell, still bound and gagged.

Bryce fervently hoped Roan had a backup plan of some kind.

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: Next time on Chuck vs the Frontier. Gunfights! _Sword_fights! Explosions! (Well maybe not that last one)

Reviews keep me honest, so drop me a review if, in my exuberance and rush to get this out sort of on time, I neglected some detail that leaves you scratching your head, or if you just want to talk about how great I am. (Or how awful, I'm an equal opportunity kind of guy)


	31. Chapter 31

A/N: This chapter was writer's block hell, so much so that I started another story, and wrote 5 chapters of that before I could get any headway on this one. Buckle your seatbelts... it's gonna get crazy.

Chapter 31:

"What's taking so bloody long," Panzer demanded when he walked into the stableyard. He'd spoonfed the assembled troops the new cover story about how the interlopers from Secret Service (of course he hadn't mentioned that fact) had killed the base commander, and he was expecting to return to find his men already through the wall shared by the stables and the gold vault. Instead a pair of his men, still in uniform, were fiddling with the machine and scratching their heads.

The more senior of the two, wearing sergeants stripes, but actually a Captain before he retired and joined the Ring, shook his head. "It doesn't work like they said it should."

"Typical," Hugo grumbled. "Go get the prisoners, I told the men we're transporting them to the Federal lockup for safe-keeping, maybe Dr. Tesla can get the bloody thing working." He waved absently, selecting a couple of men for the task.

They were back in a couple of minutes, shoving Tesla and the Secret Service man ahead of them.

Panzer pulled his revolver and turned it on Dr. Tesla. "Make the machine work."

"I must warn you I do not work well at gunpoint," Tesla said. "Perhaps if—"

Panzer let his point of aim shift. "I wonder how well you'd work with nine toes," he said as if made no difference to him, and pulled back the hammer.

"Well," Tesla said, his accent more prominent with his obvious case of nerves. "When you put it that way."

"Damn it, Tesla, don't do it!" Larkin shouted.

Panzer nodded to one of the men who had escorted the prisoners, and the Ring operative clouted Bryce in the back of the head with his rifle butt. "I thought I ordered him gagged?"

"You did," one of the Ring agents said. "But I thought you wanted to talk to them..."

Panzer rolled his eyes. "Well, you see how that worked out. Tesla, fix the machine. Re-gag him."

The fussy little man nodded soberly and went to check the bulky device, once his hands were freed.

Panzer let him work for a couple minutes before his impatience got the better of him. "Do you know what's wrong?"

Tesla turned and glared for a moment. "Yes, is fixed now."

"Good," Delgado, get them loaded in the lockup wagon.

The man's frown tugged his scar into a hideous grimace. "Why don't we just kill them?"

Panzer shook his head. "Information, Lieutenant, is always useful. I want to know how the Secret Service cottoned on to our plans. When he have the time, I'll pry it out of our talkative friend. And it's always nice to have a genius in your pocket. With Roark dead, we're low on good science types," he turned to the men who had been trying to use the machine. "What're ya waiting for, get on with it!"

The men began heaving on the crank-handle that protruded from the side, and a low thrum began to rattle Panzer's fillings.

"Won't they hear that?" his lieutenant asked. "It's making a racket."

Panzer shook his head. "Vault walls are thick," he explained. "And I reassigned the guards so—" The wall gave out and a ten foot section tumbled to the ground with a crash, and Panzer winced. They had to have heard that one. "Double time, get in there and get these wagons loaded quick, you hear?" It was a race now, Panzer knew. There was only so much irregularity that army troops would stand, even from a commanding officer. His plan took as many things as it could into account, the cut telegraph and telephone lines would be discovered eventually, but with any luck they'd have the wagons loaded and outside the fort before an alarm was raised. He grimaced and went to join his men. There were only thirty of them, himself included, and several tons of gold to move.

* * *

Corporal Ritter frowned at his post. "Did you hear that?"

"Eh?" the other man on vault guard duty said with a quirked eyebrow. "You say something?"

Ritter shrugged and raised his voice a little. They were both artillerymen by trade, not accustomed to standing guard duty like this, and hard of hearing. "I thought I heard something."

"What! In the vault?" Dunford said dubiously, and loudly. "I didn't hear anything."

"There it is again," Ritter said.

"Hm. I don't know. I didn't hear anything."

"You never hear anything," Ritter scoffed. "Deaf as a post."

"I am no such thing!" PFC Dunford protested. "I brush my teeth once a week just like the next man."

"What?" Ritter said. "What did you think I said? Nevermind, you just proved my point. You're _deaf, _I said!"

Dunford grunted. "Yeah, I suppose I am at that. _What's_ your point?"

Ritter grumbled a curse under his breath and subsided. It was five minutes later when he heard that sound again. "I swear I heard something that time."

* * *

Panzer cursed under his breath. There was still a couple wagonloads of gold to pack away, but the racket caused when the remaining pile of gold bars had collapsed had been louder even than when the wall came down. "Shit, leave the rest. We need to be out the gate, now!"

* * *

"You sure? Nobody could have got in the vault, there's just the one key. Leave off, our shift's over in half an hour; let it be the midwatch's problem."

"I'm going to find Panzer," Ritter decided, and set off across the fort in search of his erstwhile commanding officer. He made his way out of the building which housed the vault, nodding to the other posted guards as he went; they were all men he knew from the artillery detachment.

He paused once he was out in the courtyard, for another hint of the sound he thought he'd head, but all Ritter heard was the usual bustle of the fort, and the usual high-pitched buzz that made it dificult for him to hear much of anything.

There was another pair of guards standing watch at the door leading into the administration building, who he didn't recognize. "Looking for Captain Panzer," he explained.

"Well he's not here."

"Where is he?"

The guards just shrugged, "Captain don't tell the likes of us his every move, now do he?"

Ritter scowled. "Well who's next in command?"

"Lieutenant Bonner," the private on watch said, pointing.

Ritter nodded thanks and went to flag down the lieutenant. He explained as best he could.

Bonner frowned. "You just missed him. He just left a couple minutes ago with the prisoners. I got the key to the vault right here, though, so don't worry."

"Why did he go himself?" Ritter wondered.

"You know, I asked him that myself, and he just told me to mind my own business," Bonner said. "So I shut up and never even asked why he needed half a dozen wagons and a dozen riders just for two prisoners."

Ritter blinked and his stomach lurched uneasily. Something was very bad wrong. "Sir, we need to open the vault."

"I'm supposed to telephone an official request up the chain of command first, with specific reasoning," the Lieutenant said. "It's a lot of work. Why?"

"I can't explain it," he said. "I've just got this sinking feeling... let's go make that call."

It took them another five minutes to get across the fort to the one telephone. Bonner shook his head. "That's strange," he said. "I can't get a-hold of the operator." He was starting to get his own sinking feeling now.

"Lieutenant," Corporal Ritter said.

Bonner nodded before he even had to say the rest. "Let's go check out that vault." They ran back across the fort, gathering a fair knot of curious souls behind them.

Lieutenant Bonner fumbled the key into the lock and it took three men to haul open the huge six-inch think iron door. "Son of a bitch," he breathed, when they found the vault two-thirds empty, and a great hole in the far wall. "Gentlemen," soon-to-be-former-Lieutenant Bonner said. "It appears we have been robbed."

"Well, we gotta call and tell somebody!" an anonymous soldier shouted.

"Can't," Ritter said bleakly. "Telephone line is cut."

"Let's get after em then!" another man shouted. "They can't have got far!"

But of course, after a mad rush back out into the courtyard, they found the gates barred shut from the outside.

* * *

Panzer looked back, when he heard the first cannon-shot. They were already a third of the way to the train station in Elizabethtown, and the report was only just audible as a rumble from that distance, nearly three miles off; still, it gave him the time frame on potential pursuit. The gates were made from thick timber, and intended to withstand just that sort of punishment. It wouldn't take them too long to blast the gates open, but t was time enough. Panzer checked his pocket-watch and grinned. He shouted and order and spurred his horse up to a gallop, the rest of his outriders and the wagons following suit. It was a fairly straight and level road to their waiting train. They'd make it with time to spare.

* * *

The train depot in Elizabethtown wasn't big enough for their 'hijacked' train to pass unremarked, Sarah knew. "We should jump off and walk into town," she said when they were still a couple minutes outside of town.

Bill laughed. "Ah, don't bother," he said. "I'll figure something out."

"But trains don't just show up unannounced," Chuck said. "Sarah's right, as much as I don't relish the thought of leaping from _another _train."

Casey arched an eyebrow. "Another? Meaning you've done this before?"

"Hellfire, boy, relax," Bill said. "Explaining things to the authorities is what we'll call 'my problem', you folks got gold-thieves to catch. Best be on about that, y'hear?"

"Fair enough," Casey said, "Just got one last thing to do, then." He grabbed his bedroll from where he'd left it untouched most of the trip.

Chuck rolled his eyes. "Now is not the time for a _nap_, Marshal Casey."

Casey shook his head. "Ain't a bedroll, Moron." He flipped the canvas open into a three foot wide, six foot long rectangle, with pockets stitched all over. Chuck blinked.

"Oh. Of course," Chuck said. "How silly of me not to expect you to have a gun-roll."

"Look at this," he said reverently, as he pulled an oddly shaped holster from a pocket of the gun-roll. "It's the Borchardt Model 1893."

Sarah blinked. "But it's... wait, _what?_"

Casey pulled the pistol out of its holster to show it off. It was without a doubt the oddest looking contraption she had ever laid eyes on, with a huge oblong shaped protrusion back behind the grips and no hammer that she could see. And no cylinder to hold the bullets. "So, is it just a single shot? Where do the bullets go?"

Casey grinned and pulled aside another flap, to reveal a row of a dozen or more metal boxes in leather pouches sewn onto a heavy leather bandolier. He hauled one of them out and showed it around.

"This, lady and gentlemen, is the first detachable box-magazine fed semiautomatic pistol," he slammed the box into the grip of the weapon and yanked back on the oblong bit behind the grip. "Ready to go. And by first, I mean _first_. I won it off some German guy at poker a couple weeks back. Hasn't even applied for patents in the States yet. I call her Mona. Because she's the Mona Lisa of handguns." Casey hauled the bandolier of box-magazines for his pistol across his chest and waved dismissively at the remaining weapons. You can take all the revolvers and such that you like."

Chuck and Sarah took another brace of pistols each, and were just finishing belting them on when they pulled into the station.

An elderly man in a uniform of some kind ran up. "What in the hell's goin' on here! You ain't on the schedule!"

Bill glanced knowingly back at Sarah and Chuck and Casey, and waved them off the opposite side of the train. They slipped around onto the platform unseen while Bill began spinning a tall tale involving Indians and bandits.

They found a livery stable one street over, and filed in. Chuck slipped Sarah the remains of their traveling funds and stood by the door while she and Casey haggled with the man about horse prices. He had seen a column of dust coming in from the north and his curiosity got the best of him.

Chuck spotted a young boy watching him from nearby. "You know what that is, son?" he called.

The boy nodded. "Army convoy probably, be coming through town in a little, watch and see."

"They do that a lot?" Chuck asked.

The boy shrugged and didn't say anything more.

"What I mean is, is it out of the ordinary?" Chuck said.

The boy shook his head. "No, mister. It ain't out of the ordinary. Got to keep the fort supplied. And some come down for the saloons sometimes."

Chuck nodded. "Thanks," he said, and leaned back up against the wall, putting his thumbs through his belt and wishing Sarah and Casey would hurry. The boy imitated him, and after about a minute, a woman, probably the boy's mother, came rushing up and took the boy by the ear, throwing baleful looks in Chuck's direction. He frowned in consternation, until he remembered that he had a pistol on each hip, and another pair hanging from his chest, a derringer in each boot and the small of his back, and a shotgun strapped to his back. He recalled Sarah telling him what an imposing figure he cut to those who didn't know him, and shook his head. Seemed she was right. Hopefully he'd be able to bluff his way through if it came to that.

The army convoy the boy had predicted came through, at a canter and Chuck scratched his chin, only half-watching it pass. He noticed that the men weren't wearing their telltale blue coats, and wondered why that might be. Sarah came back out of the livery stable and handed him back a much thinner bundle of bills, muttering about highway robbery. He wasn't paying much attention to her at the moment, because of what he spotted in the last wagon of the procession.

Chuck blinked and said the first thing that popped into his head. "What's Bryce doing in there?"

Sarah froze in mid-sentence, the import of Bryce's predicament hitting her first; she grabbed Chuck by the arm and hauled him into the stable. "Casey," she bellowed. "Mount up! We're late!"

* * *

Panzer glanced back in the direction of Fort Knox and grinned. Still no sign of pursuit; they would be on the train without any mishaps in another couple of minutes, and then it was just a nice train ride to the rendezvous and—

One of the outriders pitched out of his saddle into the dirt by the side of the thoroughfare, and he heard the gunshot a moment later, followed by the scream of horses and a plume of dust. "Son of a bitch! Tommy! Take some riders and give us a rear guard. Everybody come on!" He said. "Ride you sons of bitches!" Panzer grimaced inwardly as he spurred his mount to a gallop. They probably had the numbers to turn and take care of whoever was shooting at them, but his objective was to escape with the gold, that was most important, and they were less than a quarter mile from the train depot.

* * *

Sarah stood in her stirrups and racked the lever on her Winchester forward and back to chamber another round even as the first man tumbled from his saddle. The man's hand somehow got tangled up in the reins, hauling the horse up short and left. "Oh, shit," Sarah whispered, already seeing the inevitable. With a scream, the animal ran sidelong into the team hauling the lockup wagon. The riderless horse stumbled and the lockup wagon-team jerked hard away. The lockup wagon was top-heavy, and the sudden movement by the horses nearly put it up on two wheels. The driver steered back right instinctively, and the wagon tilted precariously back the other direction. It all happened at once; the riderless horse took the wagon-wheel in the shoulder with a crack of wood breaking and bone cracking. The horse let out another scream and the front right wagon-wheel came apart. Most of the spokes just shattered in place, but one sheared off and flew forward, cutting a shallow gash in the rump of the right-side horse of the wagon-team.

That was too much for the frightened horses, and they bolted, the right horse a step ahead. What was left of the right-front wheel dug a brief furrow in the dirt and the load came unbalanced, jerking over hard right. The driver leaped clear at the last second before the wagon tipped over; the horse-hitch snapped free and the wagon itself tipped over onto its side with a crash and a cloud of dust, skidding along the dirt road for a dozen yards or more. The crippled horse fell and rolled, it's scream cutting off when the animal's neck broke.  
Sarah cringed and reined in to avoid getting tangled up in the crash. Chuck and Casey followed suit, coming to a stop beside her. Casey let out a low whistle. "Nice shot, Walker."

"Take cover!" she shouted, as some of the other riders turned to fight, and spurred forward.

Chuck flipped his leg over and practically dove out of the saddle; rolling to absorb the impact, he went toward the wagon at a run.

Casey pulled his horse around before dismounting to put the bulk of the animal between him and the enemy; the closest cover was at the edge of the road a good ten yards away to his right. He wasn't about to follow Bartowski on his run to the crashed wagon. The moron would be in the open almost the whole way there. Didn't he know he was in a fire-fight? Casey grunted and pulled his pistol, one hand still holding the reins of his horse, which was near terrified at being so close to the crash. Horses aren't stupid; his mount knew that one of its brethren had just died, and Casey knew that the spooked wagon-team's fear was contagious. An experienced horseman, he tried to whisper into his mount's ear to calm it, even just a little, in the seconds-long lull, but the animal reared away. Casey let the animal go and squeezed off a full magazine on the run, sending eight rounds only vaguely in the direction of the closest Ring outrider.

He took cover behind a pile of grain-sacks on the front porch of a dry-goods store and ejected the spent magazine, fishing a fresh box of bullets from his bandolier.

Sarah's mind had started to race as soon as she'd seen the horse lurch into the path of the wagon, and even before she shouted her warning for Chuck and Casey to find cover, her plan was coming together. Her horse was in a near frenzy, just as Casey and Chuck's had to be, but instead of trying a dismount, she dug her spurs into her mount's flanks. The horse reared and came down into a heedless gallop. Sarah's hands on the reins did little to guide the horse to the left-hand side of the crashed wagon; it was going that way anyway. She dropped the reins and grabbed her saddle's pommel with one hand, leaning forward to slip her feet free of the stirrups. There was no time to spare a glance to make sure Chuck and Casey had found cover.

Sarah got her feet up on the saddle and had to wait two frantic heartbeats for her horse to be in position; she leapt from her galloping mount straight onto what had once been the side of the crashed wagon, but was now it's roof. Her breath left her in a grunt, but she rolled lengthwise and managed not to fall from her perch. She gasped air and tried to steady her breathing all at once, cradling her repeater into her shoulder and taking aim. Her shot went high, startling the oncoming rider into pulling up short. Sarah racked the lever to chamber another round. The bare moments it took to do so steadied her enough that her second shot pitched another rider out of his saddle.

Chuck was at a dead run, but Sarah's mad gallop overtook him, and his mouth dropped open when he saw her leap from her mount. His fiance. The incongruity of the thought and the moment all struck him at once, and he was giddy and breathless when he stumbled to a stop, running his shoulder into the metal grate that composed the rear door of the lockup wagon.

"Bryce, you alive in there?" Chuck shouted.

"Mr. Larkin is gagged, but I don't believe anything is broken, speaking for myself," a voice said with an accent Chuck couldn't immediately place. From further into the wagon, someone gave a muffled shout, most probably Bryce.

"Alright, get away from the door, I'm going to blast the lock."

"We are chained to the floor," the accented voice said. "Please be careful. And mind the ricochet!"

Chuck cursed under his breath and put the shotgun up to a firing position, pressing himself up against the grating to that the shot-column would pass parallel to the door and into the empty dirt road to his left. He gave the pig-iron padlock both barrels, and breathed a sigh of relief when the lock came undone. Chuck hauled the ruined lock out of the hasp and shouldered the grating open; it had previously opened right-to-left, and with the wagon on it's side, he had to lift it up so he could crawl inside.

He had a brief moment of vertigo, seeing the benches set into the wall rather than the floor, but he shook it off. "Here, hold this," Chuck said, shoving the shotgun into the closest prisoner's hands, and fumbling one of his revolvers out of it's holster. Off to the right, and from the roof of the wagon, he heard continuing gunfire.

Chuck grabbed the chains and held the barrel of the pistol a scant inch from the chain; hopefully that would be enough. From the looks of the chain, it wasn't the best workmanship. Chuck racked back the hammer and squeezed the trigger. His hand on the chain stung from the vibration, but the chain parted.

"Alright, move it!" he shouted, "I'll get your hands free in a minute."

There was an awkward moment as they jockeyed for position, but the first prisoner, the man with the accent got out the back of the wagon. Chuck yanked the gag out of Bryce's mouth. "Anything broken?"

Bryce grimaced and worked his jaw, but shook his head. "I'll live," he said, though his voice was pained, and there was blood on his face from a split scalp. Those always bled like mad.

Chuck repeated the procedure he'd done on the first man's chains, and then crabwalked toward the rear-grating with Bryce in pursuit.

"So you didn't exactly look surprised to see me," Bryce said.

"I figured it out when Sarah told me they faked _my _death," Chuck shot back. "You never were good at math, but one plus one usually equals two, Broseph."

"What was that you called me?" Bryce said, bewildered.

"Sorry," Chuck said. "Future slang pops into my idiom when I'm freaking out."

"Freaking? Future _what!"_

"No time, Bryce," Chuck said. "Here, take one of my guns," he passed Bryce a revolver.

"One of... how many do you _have?"_

"One less, now," Chuck nodded toward the man with the accent. "Can I, get that back... Mr..."

"Nikola Tesla," he said as he held out the shotgun.

"Chuck Bartowski, pleased to meet you, Dr. Tesla," he popped open the break action on his double barreled shotgun and stuck out his hand. Tesla shook it, trying to contain his bewilderment and anxiety. "I'm a big fan of your work."

"What do fans have to do with anything?" Dr. Tesla demanded.

Chuck shrugged. "See above, Re: future slang," he said. Bryce and Tesla shared a bemused glance. As if that explained anything. Chuck finished reloading the shotgun and tossed it back to Dr. Tesla. "Sarah, honey, how's the gun-fight going?"

"About as well as can be expected," she hollered back. "But the rest of the wagons are getting away, and the town's going to pick sides any minute now."

"How many tangos!" Chuck said.

"How many _what!"_

Chuck grunted. Future-speak sure was a pain in the backside. "Bad guys shooting back at you! How many and where!"

"There's two still shooting, Casey's got one pinned down behind outside the saloon. And the other one is trying to circle around to the left while I'm reloading."

"Left it is then," Chuck said. A second revolver appeared in his left hand without him really having to think about it. Bryce and Tesla were a moment behind him rounding the side of the crashed wagon.

They opened fire as one; Bryce actually paused to aim, where Chuck and Tesla emptied their weapons as quickly as possible. The blast of the shotgun knocked the good doctor flat on his ass. The Ring operative went down in a hail of gunfire, caught in the open in his attempt to flank Sarah.

The remaining Ring agent made a run for it, but Sarah finished dropping rounds into the tubular magazine of her carbine, twisted the top shut and rolled over into a shooting position. He got maybe twenty yards before Sarah's bullet took him in the back.

"Did I get him?" Tesla inquired while Chuck helped him to his feet.

Chuck grinned ruefully, pointing out the bullet scars in the wood siding behind and above where the Ring agent had stood. Tesla's buckshot wasn't the only thing that had missed high. Chuck didn't think he had hit the man either. "Let's just be glad Bryce and Casey are here."

"What about Sarah?" she said, before jumping down from the wagon.

"Well, of course, that goes without saying. I just meant that..." Chuck grimaced and his eyelids flickered briefly. "I'll stop talking now before I dig myself in any deeper."

Sarah cocked her head and frowned. "You just checked the future, I saw that! You can't just—that's a forfeit!" She pointed accusingly.

"What's that Casey? Bad guys getting away?" Chuck said. "We'd better get after them, then. Oh, but first, we need to get the rest of the chains off shouldn't we?"

"I've got it," Sarah grumbled, fishing a lock-pick set out of one of the pockets of her coat.

Another gunshot rang out, and Chuck flinched, turning toward the sound. Casey looked up from his target, one of the Ring operatives who must not have been all the way dead, and shrugged. "He had a knife. Alright then, no more dawdling, children," Casey said as he slammed a fresh magazine into his automatic. "They're heading for the train station, and all the horses are dead or run off," he eyed Bryce and Tesla askance, "If you can keep up, you're welcome to join us." The big Marshal took off at a loping run without another word.

"You keep the most interesting Company, Charles," Bryce said.

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: So, last chapter in the author's notes, I promised a sword fight in this chapter. Well the chapter kind of sprawled on me, and that was such a great line to end a chapter on, I had to split it there. Sword fight (and more gunplay) next chapter. We're closing in on the big finish for this one, so I don't want to have another months long gap. Reviews can and do help with that.


	32. Chapter 32

A/N: Sorry for the long delay on this chapter. I had to introduce a new character this chapter to get things to work properly. If you're old enough to know who Lee Van Cleef is, that's all the characterization you need. If you don't know who that is? What are you doing reading a Western-themed story in the first place? Go watch _the Good the Bad and the Ugly_. That guy with the amazing mustache, kicking all that ass? Lee Van Cleef. I didn't even bother to change his name. (Google images works too. Except he's a ninja in the first picture that comes up. It was the eighties. Go figure.)

Some of you may need a brief refresher for this story and 31 chapters is a lot to ask people to re-read. So here goes the hyper-compressed and potentially run-on laden version of this story:

_Chuck__ and __his __adopted __brother__ Bryce __learn__ that __their __father __has__ been __murdered __by __his __business__ partner __Theodore __Roark__. __They __go __after __him in a bid __for __wild__-__west __style __vengeance__ (despite living in Boston all their lives) and __wind __up __blowing __up __a__ machine __Roark __and __Stephen __built __to __see __into __the __future __called__ the __Tesseract __Engine__; __in __the __process__, __Chuck __gets __a __glimpse__ of __**all **__**possible**__** futures**__, __and __spends __two __weeks __in __a __coma__. _

_The__ Secret __Service __sends__ Chuck __and __Sarah __on __the __run__, __after __the __Ring __tries __to __assassinate __him__ in__ the __hospital__. __They pose as an engaged couple, __have __a__ series __of __adventures __on __the __run__, __become __ever __closer, until Chuck proposes marriage for real, and Sarah accepts._

_Bryce__, __now__ working __for __the __Secret __Service __after __they __faked __his __death __in __the __Tesseract __Engine __explosion__, __uncovers __Ring __plans __to __use __Dr__. __Nikola __Tesla__'__s __supposed __**Earthquake**__** Gun **__to __steal __all __the __gold __out __of __Fort __Knox__. __Chuck __and __Sarah__,__ having __linked__ up __with __Deputy __US __Marshal __John __Casey__, __race __to __Fort __Knox__ to __stop __the __plot __as __well__. __Chuck__ flashed on __the __Ring__'__s __plans __after __a__ brief __run__ in __with __Vincent __Smith__'__s __FULCRUM __gang gave him complete control of his memories, if only momentarily__. __Oh__, __and __Sarah __is revealed to be, __quite __literally, __a __ninja__. (Which has a kind of weird unintended call back to Lee Van Cleef in _The Master,_ with its 'American as a ninja grandmaster' high concept._)_  
_

_They__ arrive __too __late__, __Bryce__ and __Tesla __are __captured__, __and __Chuck __Sarah __and__ Casey __are__ forced __to __bust __them__ out__. __The__ Ring __fights __a__ delaying __action__ which__ allows __the __fleeing __Ring__ agents __to __reach __the __local __train__ station,__ their __stolen__ cache __of __gold __bullion__ in tow and__ T__eam__ Bartowski __hot __on __their __heels__. __Which__ is __where __our __story __resumes__..._

* * *

Chapter 32:

Chuck and Bryce and the others caught up to Major Casey after only a hundred yards or so, barely halfway back to the train depot. Chuck nearly ran into Casey before Sarah grabbed him by the back of his collar.

Casey was standing at the back of a smallish crowd of townsfolk, glowering in disgust while the Ring troops loaded the wagons full of gold bullion onto a waiting train. "What are we waiting for?" Chuck said.

Casey grunted unhappily and pointed. "See that thing on the caboose, looks like a Gatling gun?"

"Yeah?"

"It's a _Gatling__gun_. We charge in, we'll get torn to pieces. Saw it firsthand in the Indian wars; it's not something I want to see again."

"Not to mention the crowd of innocent people at our back," Sarah put in.

"Oh," Chuck said.

"So what do we do?" Bryce grumbled, "We just let them get away with the gold? I don't like it."

"Neither do I," Casey said sharply.

"Damn it, its not_just_ the gold," Chuck said.

"Yes it is," Bryce said. "I overheard them plotting."

Chuck shook his head. "No," he said, "Its just phase one of the plan. The Ring is trying to corner the gold market. Then when they trigger an economic collapse in a few months, they're the only ones who can afford to field troops. They can seize the government outright by 1894."

They all stared at him. Chuck shrugged. "I've seen it. Not pretty."

"What are you talking about, please?" Doctor Tesla said, tugging on Chuck's sleeve.

He grimaced. "The device father and Roark built," he explained in a hushed tone, since some of the townsfolk were beginning to take notice of the knot of out-of-towners, "the one that looked into the future, I saw it all. A Century's worth, maybe more. And some things I can recall when I need to."

Tesla goggled at him. "And your head didn't explode? Would you be at all adverse to my dissecting your brain should I outlive you?"

Sarah glared at the doctor. "He most _certainly_ would be," she growled.

"Perhaps a few harmless experiments then?"

Chuck opened his mouth to agree, but spotted Sarah's glare shift to him and changed what he'd been about to say. "Now really isn't the time for this, Doctor Tesla, the bad guys are getting away," he pointed to where the Ring troops had finished loading the gold. The engine's steam-whistle let out a high-pitched shriek and the train started moving. The Gatling crew kept the crowd covered until they were out of range, and Chuck could hear Casey's teeth grinding.

"Now what do we do?" Casey said. "If they get away with all that gold..."

"Montgomery will have warned all the branch mints to increase their security by now, hopefully, so its not a total disaster," Sarah said, "We can telegraph ahead and maybe get some people in place at the next town to stop them?"

"I doubt they'll just stop if a local Sheriff asks _politely_," Bryce said, "they'd have to dynamite the tracks to stop that train. And no one will cut a rail line on just our say so."

"And I doubt we could catch them on horseback, even if the livery would give us any more horses after that gunfight," Chuck said dejectedly, "I think we just lost."

Sarah's jaw set. "I don't like to lose," she said. "I think I can _persuade_ the stable to let us have more horses."

Another steam-whistle sounded, spinning them around toward the sound. "You-u! Agent Walker! Major Casey?" Bill the train conductor shouted, waving from the cabin of his steam engine. "Anybody need a ride?"

The four of them made their way through the crowd to Bill's train. "How did you talk your way past the Sheriff?" Sarah asked as she hauled herself up into the cabin.

"About that," Bill said with a sheepish grin.

A grizzled, gray-haired man wearing a Sheriff's badge tipped his hat to Sarah. "Sheriff VanCleef. Way I hear it we got some gold thieves to catch?"

"And they've got a gatling gun."

VanCleef hauled a huge rifle up from where it leaned against the was what looked to be a telescope mounted on top of it. "Bessie can take care of that."

"Great," Chuck muttered. "Another nutjob who names his guns."

"Another what?" Bryce asked.

Chuck shook his head. "Nevermind..."

"All aboard!" Bill shouted and set the steam engine in motion. The Ring train had a lead of nearly half a mile, but it was hauling a full load of cars and a number of tons worth of gold bars. The train holding Chuck and the others had no such cargo holding it back, and soon the wind of their passage whipped at everyone's clothing. Bryce grinned and doffed his coat, rolling up his sleeves to shovel coal with something approaching glee.

"I've always wanted to ride up in front like this," he explained.

Sarah cast a curious look in Chuck's direction. "If not for father, I do believe he'd have run off to be a train conductor long ago."

Bill's ears perked up at this, "It's an honorable, if unappreciated profession."

* * *

On the back of the fleeing train, the Gatling crew spotted the pursuing train almost immediately. "Hmm..." One of the Ring agents said. "That seems a little odd. Go ask Panzer before we open fire on them. I don't want to explain having to liquidate an entire train-load of civilians if we can avoid it."

The second man nodded and ducked into the caboose, heading forward for the official word. The train was noticeably gaining ground on them, and when it was only a couple hundred yards off, he spotted a glint of sunlight off something. They took a gentle turn, and he realized what was nagging at him. The other train wasn't trailing any cars behind it. That was odd enough that a thrill of anxiety went through him. Too late, he reached for the crank handle on his Gatling gun.

Van Cleef's bullet took him in the throat and he crumpled behind the vehicle-mounted weapon.

The seconds while the engine closed with the fleeing Ring train seemed to go on forever. It was only a couple minutes at most, before Sarah felt confident making the leap. She had shimmied forward, using the service railing to get around to the front of the boiler. Casey Chuck, Bryce and Van Cleef had followed, necessitating a brief argument as to who would go first. Casey and Chuck had, of course over-ruled the others in favor of Sarah taking point. They'd seen her in action before.

Sarah's leap took her fully across the six-foot gap and she landed lightly on the railing, just as the door of the caboose swung open. A second man was right behind him.

The Ring agents had just enough time to notice their dead compatriot before Sarah struck. She moved like lightning, knife out and flashing.

She stabbed the first man twice in the chest before flowing past him, a third stab to the back giving her the leverage to fling the mortally wounded man into the railing. It took him in the thighs and he toppled over, taking Sarah's knife with him.

In the same movement that had dispatched the first agent, Sarah's knee took the second man in the stomach, doubling him over. She grabbed him by the back of his gunbelt and ran him over the far side of the railing before tossing a quick knot in her rope and tossing the line back to the rest of the waiting boarding party.

Chuck grinned. "I'm gonna _marry_ that girl," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the roaring wind. Van Cleef, Bryce, and Tesla stared at him incredulously. Casey grunted equivocally.

But Bryce at least shared his adopted brother's levity, grinning as he headed across the rope-bridge Sarah had established.

"You're next, Tesla," Casey bellowed back to the scientist.

"Really? Must I?"

"Somebody's got to make sure your earthquake gun doesn't go off again!"

Tesla grumbled under his breath as he went across. "It's not really a gun, it doesn't 'go off.' It has a crank for goodness' sake. But does anyone listen to _Dr__. _Tesla? No. Of course not, he has a funny accent!"

"Don't be self-conscious, Doctor," Sarah said as she helped him over the railing onto the caboose. "I find it charming."

Tesla blushed slightly and smoothed his mustache. "Did you happen to see my machine? It makes earthquakes."

"I thought it just did something with standing waves," Bryce put in.

"Quiet you!" Tesla snapped, still preening.

"Is this it?" Sarah called, pointing out the machine.

"How did you know?"

"It's got your name on the side, Doctor," she said, fighting a smirk.

"Ah, of course," Tesla went over, and pulled the crank out of the side of the machine and tucked it under his arm. "That should do it."

Sarah shook her head, and was still laughing when Chuck and Casey joined them in the caboose. Van Cleef stayed behind to consider the Gatling gun. "Something funny?" Chuck inquired innocently.

Sarah shook her head and mastered the fit, mimed locking her lips shut.

Casey grunted something and strode to the far door, semi-automatic pistol in hand. "I don't have time for this, let's go, Larkin."

Sarah's demeanor became serious like turning on a light switch, and she had a gun in each fist moments later. "Sheriff," she called. "Stay back here and keep an eye on the good doctor."

When Chuck made to follow them, Sarah tried to stop him, but she took in the determined cast to his eyes and merely sighed. "Be careful, dear," she said and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Gunfire crackled from the car forward of them, and Chuck and Sarah rushed in only to find the fight over, for the moment. Three more Ring agents had fallen in a storage car packed with crates of gold bars.

Casey dropped an empty box magazine from the bottom of his pistol and slapped a fresh magazine into place, racking back the action to chamber a round.

"I've got to get me one of those," Bryce murmured, glancing at his borrowed six-shooter enviously. "I barely got a shot off."

"I'll get you in touch with the inventor, if we survive this," Casey offered, before he kicked the door open into the next car. They needed to get to the engine cab and disable the train. That or capturel or kill every man on board. Of the two, and Casey had his eye on the latter.

The next couple of cars were more gold storage, and empty save for one ill-fated Ring operative who came to investigate the sound of gunfire only to be cut down by fire from all four of the boarding party. The next car was a passenger cabin, with rows of heavy wooden seats upholstered in blood-red velvet with gold trim. Gold embellishments lined the wallpaper between the windows, and the curtains were fine, with cloth-of-gold tiebacks. The entire car spoke of opulence. At the halfway mark, the cabin was walled off for a sleeping cabin.

From the wealth evident in the outfitting of the car, Chuck was convinced it must belong to one of the shadowy leaders of the Ring. He only had a few moments to marvel at the furnishings, before Sarah tackled him down behind one of the rows of seats. Gunfire ripped through the air above them, and the distinctive sound of Casey's semi-automatic returned fire.

He emptied his pistol quickly and ducked under cover long enough to slap in a fresh magazine. Their opposition was briefly pinned down when he popped back up and rattled off half a dozen shots. Casey grinned and waited for two men to pop out of cover, putting rounds seven and eight through each man, respectively, and popping back down behind his row of seats.

The Ring's fire came back even heavier than before, keeping the foursome pinned down.

Casey poked his head out briefly and then jerked back suddenly, yanking his hat off his head and fingering the hole shot through it with an incoherent growl. "Damn it," Casey growled, "We'll never make it at this rate." He fired blindly, merely poking his gun-hand around his bit of cover.

Chuck had hung back a little, taking Sarah's advice to heart. He spotted the ladder at the rear of the car, and the idea came to him fully formed. Sarah spotted that expression and knew immediately what he was planning. "No you don't! Keep your head _down__!"_ Even as she said it, Chuck shrugged apologetically and darted for the door. Sarah growled a curse and spun back to fire her pistol from the hip, fanning the hammer back. "Covering fire!" she shouted, and Casey and Bryce's guns answered the call. "If you get yourself killed I'll never forgive you!"

Chuck cringed when her words caught him halfway up the ladder, but he grit his teeth and clambered up onto the roof of the train, hoping to bypass any resistance and drop in on the engineer unexpectedly. He was halfway to the end of the car with a bald head poked up over the side, climbing the far ladder. Chuck cursed and pulled out one of his six-shooters. He should have had that out the whole time!

The other man had obviously thought things through more thoroughly, he had a revolver out and in his fist as he climbed the ladder. Chuck took careful aim. The man's bald head made a decent target, and he squeezed the trigger.

Panzer had his gun-hand out and nearly level with his head as he climbed. Chuck's bullet blasted the gun from his hand.

"Goddammit..." Chuck muttered, lowering his weapon to haul back the hammer with his free hand. Panzer charged, hitting Chuck in a shoulder tackle before he could take aim again. Chuck's breath left him in a rush, and he kicked Panzer off of him, clambering to his feet.

"Should have aimed for my head," Panzer shouted over the rush of wind.

"I did," Chuck grumbled as he pulled another of the pistols Sarah had hung all over him back in town. Before he could even get the weapon aimed, Panzer's saber rattled out of its scabbard and knocked the six-gun from his hand. Chuck leaped backward and the tip of the blade whistled past his cheek on the return stroke.

"Let's talk about this!" Chuck shouted, his voice coming out nearly a squeak. He still had a couple of derringers, but he was barely keeping ahead of the saber. Going for another weapon would probably get him split wide open by the Ring agent's blade.

* * *

Downstairs, Sarah Casey and Bryce were still pinned down, and Sarah was growing desperate. "Cover me, I'm going after Chuck!" she shouted.

"Don't mind if I do!" Sheriff Van Cleef bellowed, standing in the doorway with the dismounted Gatling gun on his hip. Tesla stood behind him looking pleased with himself. "Keep your head down if you want to stay attached to it!" He worked the crank furiously, spewing a rain of lead and fire down the narrow aisle of the passenger car.

Sarah crawled under the stream of automatic fire toward the door.

Chuck's heels were hanging over the side of the train car, with the tip of the shaven-headed Ring agent's saber to his throat when she reached the roof. "Don't you _move_!" Sarah bellowed, colt in hand and pointed unwaveringly at the swordsman's chest. Panzer reacted quickly, grabbing Chuck by the collar and spinning him around to use him as a human shield. "Are you fast enough to kill me before I slit his throat?"  
"Let's not find out," Sarah shouted back. "Let him go and fight me like a man, if you can remember how." She tapped the hilt of her ninja-to over her shoulder.

"Lose the gun, and I'll think about it," Panzer replied.

Sarah grimaced, and left without much of a choice, tossed her peacemaker off the side of the passenger car. It wouldn't actually do her much good. With the amount of wind on the roof, she wasn't sure she would hit the musclebound oaf and not Chuck.

Panzer grinned and followed her lead, shoving Chuck toward the edge of the car. His foot hit the railing only inched from the edge and he toppled into empty space.

"No!" Sarah shouted, darting forward to try to catch Chuck before he fell from the train. She crossed the distance quickly, but Panzer still nearly skewered her with his sword in that moment of instinctive panic. Only reflexes honed by years of training allowed Sarah to turn her hips at the last moment and turn the movement into a dive.

She skidded across the roof of the train and snatched Chuck's wrist. "Grab the rail!" She shouted down to him.

Chuck grinned sheepishly. "What kept you?"

Sarah gripped his arm with both hands, and hauled with her entire body, until Chuck could grab the railing. "We'll talk about this later," she grunted and rolled away, Panzer's saber whipping through the space she had occupied a moment earlier.

She came out of the roll, ninja-to snapping out in a quick slash that had Panzer on his heels. The wind turned a brief backpedal into a near stumble, but he recovered and squared off with Sarah, sneering.

She fell into a ready stance easily, blade angled upward in both hands, feet spread wide, lowering her center of gravity. Her duster flapped behind her in the wind across the roof of the train. Panzer came forward in a rush, and Sarah knocked the cut aside easily, lashing out before he could recover completely. The tip of her sword cut a shallow furrow just under Panzer's eye and he grimaced, falling back a few steps.

Sarah shifted her stance, putting her blade down low, and rotating side-on to the wind. He was taller, and the wind affected him more than it did her, but he was stronger as well. That was a factor she'd long learned to prepare for, but now that strength was even more a blessing for her opponent. He could fight more effectively against the wind, and it lessened her advantage of speed enough to make it quite nearly a fair fight.

Sarah wasn't a fan of fighting fair, but her shuriken would fare worse even than a bullet in this wind, and she didn't have time to reach down to her boot for a derringer. This time she came forward, but not in a rush as her opponent had. Sarah came forward at a measured pace, flicking her blade out tentatively as she went again and again, testing his defenses.

Panzer's face tightened into a grimace, blood making it a red mask as he beat aside her probing attacks. It was her knowing smirk that goaded him into a furious attack, but he kept just enough sense to maintain an eye for his own defense. He wouldn't fall into the trap of losing control.

The fight went back and forth, parry and counterstrike, parry, counterstrike, but Panzer's strength was obviously winning out. He came forward again with a roar, putting his full weight into a strike, not at Sarah, but at her sword, knocking it clean out of her hand to tumble off the side of the passenger car. He squared his shoulders, bringing his saber around to wipe that smirk off her face.

"Rube," she said, grin widening, and kicked him in the balls while his blade was out of position, all according to plan. She lunged forward and grabbed his wrist to keep the weapon out of play, reared back and socked him in the jaw as hard as she could.

Panzer stumbled back and fell from the train. For a horrible moment, she teetered on the edge, the wind keeping her from catching her balance, until a hand grabbed the back of her leather duster and hauled her to safety.

Sarah turned and wrapped her arms around Chuck's neck. "What kept you?" she murmured into his ear, and pulled away to glare at him fondly.

"You want to have this talk _now__?_" Chuck asked, producing a derringer in each hand.

Shook her head ruefully and produced her own holdout weapon, leading the way forward to the engine car.

They jumped down from the last car onto the hopper car holding spare coal for the steam engine, and from there, Sarah swung into the engine compartment, derringer at the ready. Chuck was a second behind her, and tripped coming in, nearly running into the man Sarah held at gunpoint. He backed away and gestured in what he hoped was a menacing fashion with his derringer. Sarah rolled her eyes. "Get his gun, would you, Chuck? And let's see about stopping this thing?"

* * *

The surrender of the eight remaining Ring agents aboard went easily enough. Once the train began to slow down, they realized their predicament, and none of them was foolish enough to keep up the fight when they had a Gatling gun on one side of them and more guns on the other, ready to flank them. They threw down their arms without any more shots fired, somewhat to Casey's chagrin. He eyed Van Cleef and his man-portable Gatling gun with no small hint of jealousy.

Deciding what to do with the prisoners was a much more complicated decision, and they eventually settled for hogtying the prisoners in one of the storage cars, with Casey and Van Cleef taking turns watching them with the Gatling gun trained over the row of bound prisoners. Van Cleef would come along to New York and oversee the transfer of prisoners from his custody to that of the Federal Authorities in New York. Bill hitched the second engine up to the caboose and headed forward to restart the Ring train.

Once she was satisfied that the with the situation with the prisoners was secure, Sarah grabbed Chuck's wrist and dragged him forward away from the others.

"Sarah? What's the matter?" Chuck asked as they entered the empty passenger car.

"Nothing," she said absently, pushing the door to one of the sleeping cabins open with her free hand. She still had a tenuous hold of Chuck's wrist. He wriggled his hand out of her grasp long enough to twine his fingers between hers. Sarah grinned over her shoulder at him when he did it, and shook her head.

"I'd still like to know what's going on..."

"In a minute," Sarah said, her tone mildly exasperated. She pressed on into the next car, and she poked her head into another pair of sleeping cabins before she nodded. "Excellent. No bullet holes in the wall."

"Is that what you were looking for?" Chuck said, "Whatever for?"

She shoved him into the cabin and slammed the door and flipped the lock shut behind her. "Take off your clothes," she said flatly.

"Do what?" Chuck said. "Um, shouldn't we... wait until after the wedding?"

Sarah grimaced slightly and shrugged. "Maybe, but... you keep trying to get yourself _killed_. Twice _today_ at my count. I'm not letting a little thing like a lack of a wedding ring stop me from having my way with you," Chuck felt himself begin to blush, and fought the reflex to no avail. Sarah paused to consider. "Unless you're willing to get hitched in the next town on the way to New York? We wait much longer, and you might get killed before I get another chance."

Chuck tugged at his collar, still trying to fight the blush that was creeping down his neck.

"Well, ah..." Chuck stammered.

Sarah's smile grew wicked and she tugged him forward with a hand on his gunbelt. "Resistance is futile Mr. Bartowski."

Chuck winced into the flash and shook his head once the fit had passed.

"What was that?" she asked, pulling him down for a brief kiss.

"Not important."

"Mmm..." Sarah said, working her way to his neck and leaving a sucking kiss there. "Fine, then. Answer the question."

"What question is that?"

Sarah arched an eyebrow and grinned. Her hand dipped into his trousers. "I think you remember."

Chuck swallowed nervously.

Which is how he found himself, less than one hour later, in front of a local minister with Bryce standing by as his best man. And Casey playing the part of Sarah's Man of Honor. As Sarah dragged him back to the train once they had hastily exchanged vows, he just made out Bryce snickering. "There's going to be _hell_ to pay when Ellie finds out about this."

Chuck's eyes widened suddenly. He hadn't thought of that. There was _indeed_ going to be hell to pay when his sister learned she'd missed his wedding. But soon, and for a goodly time after, he had other things to occupy his thoughts.

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

A/N: Next Chapter, back to New York and the final showdown with the Ring begins! I know it's been a while, but I appreciate your reviews even more because of it. Also, a little history lesson with your faux-historical fanfiction: when Bill calls out 'You-u!' apparently that's the original phase that eventually got bastardized into 'yoo-hoo!' This bit of trivia brought to you by my re-reading of _Adventures of Tom Saywer. _End history lesson.


	33. Chapter 33

A/N: It seems like I'm a broken record with this story, always apologizing for delays. This delay in particular was caused by me having to rewrite half the chapter, when I realized I'd forgotten something that happened 10 chapters ago and had to incorporate it into this one... Only one chapter left.

* * *

Chapter 33:

A knock on the door brought Chuck awake. He blinked and started to sit up in bed. But he had to stop in mid-movement. There was a very warm, pleasant-feeling weight on his chest, and an accompanying blonde head of hair. So. That had actually happened. "Chuck, Sarah! Stop canoodling, we're a couple minutes out from the station."

Sarah groaned and clutched at Chuck. "Go away, Bryce! And we're not canoodling. Don't be crass."

"I think technically..." Chuck said softly.

"Shush," Sarah said with a finger to his lips, and raised her voice to be heard through the door, "we're on our way."

"We are?" Chuck said. "We're a little under dressed. Not that it's not a good look for you, but..."

Sarah rolled her eyes and sidled off of him before shouting through the door again. "We're awake! Now, go bother Casey, Mr. Larkin."

Chuck fought down the temptation to watch Sarah get dressed, and concentrated on finding his own clothing. He was mostly dressed before it happened. "Ahem."

"What?" Chuck said.

"Why aren't you looking at me?"

"You're highly distracting, and we don't have time to get... sidetracked."

"Well," Sarah mused. "I'm certain we could make the time."

Chuck turned involuntarily to frown at her, and the frown instantly became something else entirely. He clapped a hand over his eyes to block out the tableau. "You're not wearing any clothes. We're supposed to be getting dressed."

She shrugged. "Puce is a good color on you."

Chuck snapped his eyes back up to her face and tried to fight down the blushes. It didn't seem fair that even though they were married, she could still seemingly make his cheeks burn at will. "You do that on purpose."

"Are you just catching on to that now?"

Chuck rolled his eyes, which coincidentally let him break eye contact with her long enough to begin scooping her discarded clothing from the floor and shoving them at her.

Sarah laughed. "I never imagined you'd be so eager to get me back into my clothes," she said, but acquiesced and shrugged into her blouse. Chuck made sure he kept his eyes low until he was sure she was at least partially covered up before he risked turning once more. It wasn't that he was really embarrassed by her behavior, merely that there wasn't time for an encore at the moment. At least, that's what he told himself.

Chuck passed Sarah her gunbelt and paused when he came across the scabbard and sword belt. The empty scabbard. "Oh," he said. "I..."

"What?" Sarah said. "What's wrong?"

"Your sword," he said turning and holding out the scabbard. "When Panzer knocked it out of your hands, we should have gone back for it."

"It's just a sword, Chuck."

"But, it was..." he frowned. "Didn't you get it from your adoptive parents?"

"Yes, I did," she said. "But, oh no, it's not got any sentimental value. I don't bring the heirlooms on missions, Chuck."

"Ah," he said, feeling foolish.

She gently took the now-useless scabbard from his hands and set it aside. "Thank you."

"For what?" he said.

She quirked an eyebrow and flashed him a grin. "For caring about that sort of thing. It's... been a while since anyone has given me that much thought."

"Well, I didn't just marry you so we could make love," he said.

Sarah shook her head. "I hate to be the one to point this out to you," she said, and leaned in to whisper in his ear. "But we could have been doing that a lot earlier if you'd known how to read the signals."

"There were signals?"

She raised both eyebrows. "Is that a joke? You complained about them constantly."

"I thought you were just teasing me."

Sarah cocked her head to one side. "Well, yes, but..." she shrugged one shoulder. "I was also mostly serious."

Chuck grinned and shook his head. "I don't think I'll ever understand you. And I've got..." he tapped his temple. "Quite a bit of information to go on." The train lurched and pitched Sarah forward. Chuck caught her easily and winked at her.

"That's hardly fair," she said.

His grin turned wicked. "I didn't hear you complaining last night."

Sarah was struck briefly speechless. "You..." she regrouped with remarkable speed. "Well played, Mr. Bartowski."

"I thought so. Shall we, Mrs. Bartowski?" Chuck said, and held out her coat for her.

"If we must," Sarah sighed. "I'd much prefer to keep you all to myself for a few more hours at least. But duty calls."

Outside of their commandeered sleeping compartment, the train was abuzz with activity now that they had finally arrived. Before retiring with Chuck, Sarah had sent a telegraph ahead to Roan, and the Secret Service had closed one of the platforms at Grand Central Depot, with trusted agents covering the only entry and exit points.

Sarah half-expected Roan himself to meet them at the train, but instead, she was given an encoded note in the man's handwriting. It was not particularly secure, since it was merely using codewords as opposed to the sophisticated book code they had used while on the run, but she understood the need for haste as well as anyone. None of the Ring agents on the train had had time to report back, and so, it was safe to assume that the remaining leadership of the Ring was still in the dark, at least in a few respects.

Sarah spotted Casey and Van Cleef speaking to one of her fellow Service agents and dragged Chuck over. She flashed her credentials and the man saluted in surprise. "You have transportation ready for the prisoners?"

"Yes... ma'am?" he frowned and glanced from Sarah to Casey and the expatriated Sheriff of Elizabethtown. "Agent...?"

"I know," she said. "Jarring to be taking orders from a woman," Sarah rolled her eyes and made a 'move along' motion with her fingertip. "We need to move quickly, I don't particularly have time for you to get over the shock. Send word to director Montgomery that we've arrived and are on our way."

"But I haven't told you where he is!"

"I've been at this a while, Agent..."

"Carter."

"I'm sure I'll be able to muddle through. Make sure the prisoners don't speak to anyone. It shouldn't be too far beyond your capabilities. We've taken the initiative of gagging them. And keep that gold under guard," with that, she swept the rest of her disparate compatriots up in her wake.

Carter blinked twice, slowly. "What just happened?" he asked the bustling train platform.

It took two hackney coaches to get them across town from Vanderbilt Avenue to their destination, but the second man was thrilled to be given the order to 'follow that coach,' and they arrived almost together.

"Are you certain this is the place, Walker?" Casey grumbled. "Seems like an odd place to find a Secret Service outpost."

"And where pray would be a _usual_ place for a _secret_ outpost?" Bryce said with a grin.

Chuck laughed. "I suppose that's a point for Bryce."

Casey grunted and he and Sheriff Van Cleef led the way into the bar. He went immediately up to the barman and ordered a drink. Van Cleef joined him, and Chuck started to follow as well, but Sarah put a hand on his arm and shook her head. He frowned but spotted Bryce trying none-too-successfully to hide a smirk. Dr. Tesla was merely shaking his head.

"What's going on?" Chuck whispered out the side of his mouth, just as Sarah nodded to the bartender.

There was a clatter of wood on metal and a creak of leather hinges, and Casey and Van Cleef disappeared from sight, their shouts of surprise dying quickly away.

"The secret base isn't _in_ the tavern, is it?"

Sarah shook her head. "No, it is not."

Bryce's composure finally broke and he let out a bark of a laugh. "Now I see why Montgomery thought it was so funny to pull it on us," he turned to Sarah. "Did he try the same bit on you?"

"It's standard immaturity on his part, yes," she said. "But I spotted the outline of the trapdoor and jumped clear in time."

"He can't have taken that well..."

"Actually I think that was what convinced him not to try putting me in prison."

"Prison?" Chuck demanded. "But..."

"I did mention how we met, didn't I? Roan and a couple of former agents found me standing over a number of dead Ring agents? They were traitors and spies, granted, but from a certain perspective, I had murdered half a dozen people."

"Pardon me?" Dr. Tesla said nervously.

"I've learned a little restraint since, Dr.; you needn't fear."

Chuck was a little unnerved by this disclosure himself, though he did remember a passing remark now. "They should have picked themselves up by now, Chuck," Sarah said, stepping up to the bar.

"There's not another entrance?"

"Yes," she said, "there is, but it's quite a lot of ladders to climb down. Easier just to use the slide on the way in. Relax, you'll do fine. Just try not to tense up." Sarah guided Chuck in crossing his arms and preparing himself for the drop before she gave the bartender the nod and the chute opened underneath them.

* * *

Once everyone had recovered from the slide entrance to Castle, Roan ushered them into the red-satin upholstered conference room and without wasting a breath on introductions or pleasantries of any kind, launched into a status update. "There are a number of developments to go over. Sit down everyone," Roan nodded and leaned forward over the table. I have reports in from three of the branch mints; they've repelled assault teams with minimal casualties, and taken a number of prisoners."

"That's excellent," Sarah said. "Then, we've got them on the defensive for once."

"Exactly," Roan said. "There's more, however. Senator Woodcomb was compromised by the Ring. He seems to have had second thoughts. I just spoke to him on the telephone. It seems the Ring Elders have been holding him prisoner in his own home. He managed to escape and found a pay telephone. He's given me the names of the last few Elders."

"Then we need to move quickly," Sarah said. "It won't take long for them to realize he's gone."

"I'm mustering a team to go in and apprehend them now," Roan said. "But first, I'll need Mr. Bartowski to take a gander at their files and make sure we don't have any leftover Ring agents in the Ranks. And of course I'll want you to coordinate the operation on location, Agent Walker."

Chuck cleared his throat. "It's Bartowski."

Roan turned to frown at Chuck. "I'm sorry, did you say something young man?" Then he blinked. "Wait, what?"

Sarah shrugged and brandished her wedding ring where Roan couldn't help but notice. His eyes widened. "But... ah... I assume this was part of your attempts to evade detection?" There was a hopeful tinge in his voice.

Sarah shook her head slowly. "Nope," she hooked an arm through Chuck's. "We're hitched. Come to terms with it."

"Will you consider letting her stay on at least?"

Sarah frowned. "Why are you asking him?" She turned the glare on Chuck momentarily and he blinked.

He swept his gaze from Sarah to Roan. "I would never presume to dictate what is properly Sarah's decision," he said. And neither will you if you know what's good for you, he left unsaid, but it hung in the air nevertheless.

Sarah spared him a brief smile. "Don't be ridiculous, Chuck. We haven't had time to discuss it yet, Roan. We'll get back to you once this whole Ring situation is cleared up. I believe you had something else to say?" That wasn't horribly insulting, she left unsaid.

Roan cleared his throat to a barely suppressed snicker from Bryce in the back of the conference room. And then he blinked and took in the others. "I don't believe we've been introduced."

"John Casey, Deputy United States Marshal," Casey said, tipping his hat.

"Sheriff Calvin Van Cleef. And I haven't understood one word in three out of anybody lately," he said. "I signed on to stop a gold robbery and now we've got... Rings and I don't know what all."

"They're trustworthy," Sarah said.

"You're certain? I'd hate to get this close to victory, only to have let a saboteur into our confidences."

Sarah pointed at Casey, "Shotgunned at least three Fulcrum gang members to death. Plus two more Ring agents yesterday recovering the gold."

She pointed at Van Cleef, "Same gunfight. Three or four. With a Gatling gun. It would have to be a very convoluted plan for either of them to be double agents."

Roan opened his mouth and then closed it, acknowledging the logic of the moment. He cleared his throat again and hefted a small notebook. "We've made very significant gains these last few days. There don't seem to be very many of these so-called Elders left alive. "Mr. Larkin killed Roark. Agent Walker took care of Vincent Smith. That leaves Daniel Shaw, Hugo Panzer-"

"Panzer's dead as well," Casey put in. "One of the prisoners let it slip. Sarah kicked him off the train at speed. I saw him hit a rock."

"That still leaves Shaw, and..." here he read from the notebook. "Alexei Volkoff, and Huojin 'Harold' Tang."

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "Russian? And Chinese? They hate each other. This doesn't make sense. I thought the Ring was home-grown."

Roan nodded sagely. "It appears that the Ring may not have been that which we thought them to be, off-shoots or usurpers of the legacy of Washington's Culper Ring. I believe, agent Walker-"

"Bartowski!" Bryce put in, and merely grinned when Roan glared at him.

"I believe, Agent Bartowski," he said, and rolled his eyes. "That we've been had. They were using the Culper Ring as cover all this time, perhaps even especially with their American recruits. Prejudice against Europeans and Orientals has been high recently. Things never would have come to this pass if their agents had known."

"That's not necessarily anything to be proud of," Sarah said.

"Still, an international conspiracy is far different from a domestic one, even if there are domestic members," Roan said. "We might be able to turn this revelation to our advantage in the cleaning up phase." There was a sudden ringing, and Casey and Van Cleef frowned. Montgomery reached under the table and pulled out a telephone receiver. A panel retracted in the surface of the table, and the mouthpiece ratcheted up out of the recess. "Ah, good, the telephone works. Montgomery. Yes, excellent. He replaced the earpiece and shoved a pile of folders in front of Chuck. "Our raiding party is standing by. Take a look."

Chuck frowned and shook his head. "I don't know if it'll help," he tried to explain. "It just happens. I can't really control it; it's hard to explain."

"Then what good are you?"

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "Ignore him, Chuck. Just take a look first."

Chuck nodded and began flipping through folders. He scarcely took the time to do more than glance at each photograph as he flipped. the episode struck unexpectedly, and Chuck shuddered. If he hadn't already been sitting, he would have fallen. As it was he nearly toppled from his chair. Sarah steadied him surreptitiously.

"What the hell happened?" Roan demanded as they gathered around.

"We're not out of the woods yet," Chuck explained. "The Ring had a backup plan."

"And you're just telling us now?" Casey demanded.

Chuck scrubbed his hands through his hair and glared at him. "No, that's- it doesn't work like that. My- episodes- flashes of the future, they're usually along specific probability arcs."

Bryce blinked. "Explain it like we're back at Harvard."

"I only see down a path contingent upon specific circumstances at that point in time," Chuck said, "Subsequent causal developments can alter the course that I'm catching glimpses of."

"Explain it like we're children," Casey said.

Chuck grumbled under his breath. "We've changed the future. Before we foiled the original plan there was no reason for the Ring to actually implement this backup plan, so I didn't know about it."

"Okay," Sarah said. "What plan? You looked like you were going to faint. what exactly did you see. Is this agent Dent a Ring operative?"

"No, no. Hems the one who catches the assassin..." Chuck said. "Assuming we can't change this future as well."

"Oh this is sounding better and better," Casey grumbled, "what assassin?"

"I'm getting to that! They're going to kill Harrison and Cleveland," he said. "Which will throw the election into chaos. The primaries would be wide open, and they could slip in their own candidate. They'd have a full four years to cement their control on the country."

"We'll need details if we're going to stop them," Roan pointed out.

"I know," Chuck said, "But I don't know how to get them for you. I can't control when I remember bits of the future, it just happens."

"That isn't entirely true," Sarah said.

Chuck blinked. "It's not?"

Roan arched an eyebrow, intrigued.

Sarah darted a glance at Director Montgomery, then grabbed Chuck by the wrist andhauled him to his feet. "Where are we going?" Chuck asked.

"Nowhere," she said. "I'm going to mesmerize you. We need some privacy"

"What?" Chuck said. "You tend to do that already."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Now isn't the time," she said. She shoved him into a storeroom and flipped over a bucket,."Sit down, and look into my eyes. It's been a while since I've done this. Listen carefully to the sound of my voice. Block out everything but my voice. Concentrate on my eyes."

"Like that will be difficult."

"Shush."

Chuck and Sarah returned a few minutes later, Chuck wearing a befuddled expression. "What's everybody staring at?"

"So," Casey said, "Any details on the Ring's plan?"

"What plan? Where are we?" He turned and glanced over his shoulder. "I thought we were on a train?"

Casey grunted. "He forget again?"

"Yes," Sarah said, leafing through pages of notes. "Seems it must be a defense mechanism when he remembers too much of the future at once."

"Really?" Chuck said, "Is that a thing?"

"How else do you explain forgetting that you proposed?"

"Ah," Chuck said. "I thought you'd let that go."

Sarah grinned. "Never."

"Moving along," Roan said. "Do you have any information we can _use_?"

"Yes as a matter of fact," Sarah said, skimming a page of notes. "Cleveland is across the river in Brooklyn giving a campaign speech. Casey and Sheriff Van Cleef should handle it."

"I'll send a squad along-" Roan started, but Sarah shook her head.

"Best odds are if they go alone," she explained. "If you send anyone along, they'll be spotted. And there's a whole potential future involving the cult of Cleveland that we should probably avoid if possible."

Everyone stared at her as she flipped pages. After a moment, Sarah glanced up and shrugged. "What? Do you think I'm making this up?" She brandished her notebook at them.

"Well," Chuck said. "I'm thinking it's a possibility. Let me see that?"

Sarah slapped away his hand. "No, you forgot it for a reason."

He scowled and grumbled under his breath, until she patted him consolingly on the arm. "Put the Capitol Secret Service office on the job of protecting Harrison and he's got a ninety percent chance of living," she tore out a page and handed it to Director Montgomery. "The would-be assassin will be making his attempt at this location later today."

"Well, I almost want to see if I can hop a train and be there myself. I'd love to see the look on his face when the lads show up to catch him."

Sarah glanced back at her notes and shook her head. "I wouldn't recommend it."

Roan nodded thoughtfully and headed over to the telephone cabinet to make his calls, but paused and turned back. "Don't forget to finish going over the files."

Sarah pointed Chuck back at the stack of folders.

"You have an address for us to find this would-be assassin?" Casey said.

Sarah nodded and tore out a second page. "Location, time, and his room number. Everything that you need. Good luck, there's no time to lose."

Casey and Van Cleef set off at once, and a little later, Chuck finished with the files. "What was I looking for in these?"

"You'd have known it if you found it. Roan, the strike team is clear," she said. Sarah tucked the notebook into a pocket of her coat. "Alright then, boys. Let's go finish this," she said grimly.

TO BE CONCLUDED...

* * *

A/N: Please review. I need the validation.


	34. Chapter 34

A/N: Happy new year everybody. Final chapter! You know what that means! Actionapalooza! Yeah. I made up a word. So what? Probably a load of typos and stuff I missed or overlooked. Please feel free to note them in your reviews so you can feel smug about it later. :-)

Chapter 34:

* * *

Woodcomb Residence

Manhattan, NY

Daniel Shaw waved the maid out of the parlor and crossed his arms. "Yes, Alexei," he said. "I really do think it necessary to take Cleveland out of the picture as well. The order has already been given."

Volkoff sipped from a silver-and-crystal teacup and frowned. He reached over and dipped a silver spoon into a porcelain bowl on a nearby teak end table. Once he had stirred the proper amount of honey into his tea, he took another sip and sighed happily. "If you are certain. This will not be a repeat of the Bartowski fiasco, I hope."

Shaw grimaced. "That was a group decision. Don't lay the blame for that at my feet."

The older man made a dismissive gesture with his saucer. "I am more than willing to shoulder my share of blame. Our position remains tenuous, with the failure of our raids across the country."

"I guess I'd better go see if I can persuade Woodcomb to reconsider our offer."

Alexei set aside his cup and saucer. "I shall accompany you."

Shaw scowled, but nodded, leading the way out of the parlor and upstairs, down the hall to Woodcomb's apartments. They had left a pair of guards on duty, men who had been with the Ring for years, and could be trusted not to shirk, but only one was in evidence. The man sat reading a small leather-bound copy of, Shaw saw with a surreptitious glance, _Oliver Twist. _Hardly appropriate, given their purpose. He shook the extraneous thought away. "Where is your partner?"

The guard closed his book and nodded toward the closed door. "He and the Senator share a love of obscure card games. I checked a couple hours ago; they were playing Pinochle. If anything happened, I'd have heard through the door."

Shaw grunted and knocked politely. After a few moments he knocked a little less politely. Then he tried the door. The knob rattled but the door wouldn't budge.

"Govno," Alexei said.

Shaw put his shoulder into the door and it moved all of an inch. "Help me, you idiot," he snapped at the guard.

They traded off trying to bull their way thorugh the door, until finally the portal slammed wide,with a crash, but it still only opened halfway. Something was blocking the way. Shaw slid through the door sideways, with Volkoff and the guard behind him. A cabinet had been shifted from a nearby wall. At a mahogany inlaid table, the other guard still sat, head down on the table among the playing cards; an ivory-handled paring knife protruded from behind his left ear.

"You didn't hear him doing that?" Volkoff fumed.

"Irrelevant. Go find Tang," Shaw said. "We need to set up a search party. If Woodcomb's been gone for more than a few minutes, he could have called-"

"This is the Secret Service! We have you completely surrounded!" A man's voice amplified by a speaking trumpet roared from street level.

"Montgomery," Shaw growled. "Both of you, move!"

* * *

Five minutes Earlier:

Sarah gave her noticeably-reluctant-to-be-taking-orders-from-a-woman second-in-command his marching orders and then dragged Chuck and Bryce along with her around the back of the Woodcomb residence. It was a three story house, much like those on either side, though there was a small alley on the eastern side of the building. She'd been half-expecting it, even without any confirmation from the Senator-on-the-run. It had seemed a good bet that Woodcomb had slipped out a window, and if he'd gone rappelling down a rope right into the street, the ruckus would have drawn attention from his captors.

Chuck seemed nervous, but that was his base state of being, and she imagined he was preoccupied with thoughts of how cross she'd be with him if he allowed himself to be injured; that was as it should be. She sidled along the wall down the alley, and glanced up. Exactly as she had suspected. A rope made up of bedsheets dangled from the wrought-iron railing of one of the second floor balconies. Sarah glanced over her shoulder and pointed out Woodcomb's egress point."Is that our way in, then?" Bryce whispered.

Sarah shook her head. "No, I don't trust that rope to hold long enough for all three of us to get up it. We'll go in a couple balconies down. She dug in the pockets of her duster and came out with a small metal hook of some kind. She flicked her wrist and the prongs snapped out into place and she affixed the end of a length of roped to a small eyelet. Chuck frowned. "Have you had that all this time?"

Sarah was confused for a moment. "Of course. How do you think we broke into that warehouse, magic?"

"There was a rope-and-pulley system as I recall," Chuck said.

Sarah shook her head. "For you, maybe. I had to do things the hard way. No more chatter. She put the grapnel in a brief loop over her head before loosing the projectile upward. It clanged softly and caught on the railing. After only a cursory tug to test the hook's purchase, Sarah shimmied up hand over hand as if it was a matter of every day for her.

Bryce shook his head. "Makes it look easy, doesn't she. Take a leg up?"

"Thanks," Chuck said. Bryce made a stirrup with his hands and Chuck pushed up and off before seizing the rope. It took him at least twice as long to cover about half as much rope as Sarah had climbed. By the time he reached the balcony, Sarah was inside the bedroom, and had a man laid out on his stomach. She was tying his hands behind his back, though the man looked dead.

Sarah caught his expression and rolled her eyes. "Sleeping," she whispered and brandished a leather cosh at him. "We'll need prisoners to interrogate."

Chuck nodded and turned back to help Bryce over the railing. Once his foster brother had joined them, Chuck unhooked the grapnel and coiled up the rope. He left it on the balcony. There was nothing they could do about the bedsheet-rope Senator Woodcomb had used in his escape, but at least no one would spot _their_ point of entry and warn the Ring Elders ahead of time that their hideout had been infiltrated. "I remember a little of the layout," Chuck said. "The master suite is next door, I think. Where the Senator went out from. There's a stairwell at the front and a smaller one at the rear of the hallway just outside that door. They're probably downstairs in the parlor. I wish Woody had thought to get a count on their henchmen."

"What-men?" Bryce said, puzzled.

"Gah, underlings, then," Chuck grumbled. "Stupid future jargon."

"Keep it down, boys," Sarah said. She checked her pocketwatch, the same one Chuck had repaired for her during their travels. Still about a minute for them to get into position. "We should move; try to get into position before-" For the barest instant they thought the knocking was on the door of the room they had infiltrated. Chuck breathed an audible sigh of relief when it became obvious that the disturbance was next door.

Bryce pressed his ear against the wall, trying to listen in to their conversation. "Should we move now?" He whispered.

Sarah grimaced and padded over, bringing Chuck in her wake. "No, wait until they're distracted," she consulted her pocketwatch. "Thirty seconds."

There was a crash from the other room as the second hand of her pocket watch passed the 15 second mark.

"Okay," Sarah said. "While they're distracted, we strike. Try to keep out of my line of fire."

"The same to you madam," Chuck said. Sarah rolled her eyes.

As the the amplified shout of the team downstairs reverberated through the large townhouse, Sarah's hand fell to the knob and yanked the door open.

They had all of a second to take in their surroundings before a trio of men tumbled out into the hallway less than a dozen feet away.

Everything seemed to happen at once; the man bringing up the rear of the group shoved the first two and dove back into the side bedroom. The remaining One of them growled something in a language Chuck didn't understand, 'bliad' or something similar. And then Sarah had her pistol out before anyone else could react. Her colt barked and the man took a bullet high in the chest, spun and collapsed into the wall before leaving a red smudge down the wall as he slid down it. He lay still. The second man fumbled for a weapon and Chuck and Bryce took him down with panic fire.

It took Chuck a few seconds to recover from the sudden shock of violence.

"What happened to taking people prisoner?"

"He called me a whore."

Chuck kicked the dead man in the ribs. "Well, take that, then; what language was that anyway?"

"Russian," Sarah said grimly.

"So that was probably Volkoff?"

"Probably."

"Now what," Bryce said. He had his back to Chuck and Sarah, keeping watch on the other end of the hallway.

"Stay with me," Sarah said, and shouldered the door open "Damn it." Except for a man with a knife sticking out of the side of his head, the rooms were deserted. Sarah shook her head, and didn't waste time confirming the gut feeling she had. "He went down Woodcomb's rope."

"Looks like it," Bryce said. "We'll just have to hope they catch him at the perimeter."

Sarah scrunched her nose in annoyance. "Alright, let's clear the top floor," she said, stifling a curse.

They headed toward the back of the house, Sarah leading the way with Bryce a step behind her. Chuck acted as rearguard, though he doubted his sweaty palms would help his dubious skill with a revolver. Shouts and gunfire erupted below them on the ground floor of the Woodcomb estate and Chuck tensed. The gunfight raged on, and Bryce raised his voice over the tumult.

"Hurry up, Chuck!"

Chuck hadn't realized he'd fallen behind, and turned to catch up. Bryce was waiting at the stairs, and he caught a glimpse of the trailing edge of Sarah's coat as she took the lead up onto the upper floor. He was only a few yards from the stairwell when a door to his left caromed open and a short balding asian gentleman ran headlong into him. Chuck's breath left him in a rush and they went down in an awkward tangle of limbs. In the muddle, Chuck lost his pistol, and flailed desperately for the weapon.

He had at least half a foot on his foe, but the smaller man was wiry and splitting his concentration on attempting to recover his firearm and not get punched in the face stretched Chuck's skills in the fisticuffs department. After an all-too-brief struggle, the other man wound up on top, with Chuck's mislaid pistol in his hand and pressed into Chuck's belly just under the breastbone. There was a click and a second weapon appeared, a foot behind the head of Chuck's attacker. "I wouldn't do that if I was you."

"Do you know who I am?"

"Some chap what's going to have a hole in his head if he doesn't drop the gun and get off my brother."

The man sighed and let Chuck's pistol fall from his hand, before he got carefully to his feet and backed away. Bryce kept his gun trained on the man's head the entire time. "Alright, he said. "Now you can tell me who you are."

Bryce and Chuck's captive pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Mr. Tang, I presume?" Chuck said.

There was a flicker of reaction, and Bryce nodded. "I'll take that as a yes."

A voice carried to them from the stairwell. "Where are you two?" Sarah peeked her head back into the second floor hallway and her eyes widened. "Alright, take him into one of the bedrooms; it'll be more secure. I'll sweep the upstairs."

"Be careful," Chuck said. Sarah fought the grin that the admonishment drew.

"Hey, it's me."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Chuck said.

Sarah rolled her eyes and darted back around the corner.

For Bryce and Chuck, the raid was pretty much over at that point. They chose the bedroom Tang had appeared from, and checked to make sure it was truly deserted before planting Tang in a chair by a small table. Chuck sat across from him keeping the gun aimed in the general direction of the Ring Elder's throat. At that range he didn't think he could miss. Meanwhile, Bryce kept an eye on the door. Tang merely glared across at Chuck, while the ruckus downstairs died out. "You think you've won?" he said. "You think this changes anything?"

"Oh, good," Bryce said. "Is this the bit when you gloat about your dastardly plans to assassinate the president? Old news, chum. Old news."

"How?" Tang stopped himself before he said more.

Bryce grinned. "They call it the Secret Service for a reason, Mr. Tang."

"Your smugness will be your undoing."

"Your undoing started when you decided to kill my father."

"Who? We've killed a lot of people."

"Stephen Bartowski," Chuck said, and there was a hint of something vicious in how he said it. His hand tightened on the grip of his pistol.

Tang winced and shook his head. "Not me. You cant blame that on me. I voted against it!"

"What?" Bryce said.

"We had a vote," Tang explained. "On those sort of things, always we vote. Shaw's idea. Roark and Shaw, Panzer and Volkoff vote to kill him. I wanted to let him live."

It was Chuck's turn to shake his head, incredulously. "So, the group trying to overthrow American Democracy is itself a democracy? That's ridiculous."

"Democracy," he spat, "Pah! Mob rule at best. Only we get to vote. Nobody else. And I wanted Stephen to live. Tesseract was only the beginning; we could have ridden Roark's half stake in Bartowski's inventions to such wealth as we hardly dreamt of, and idiots vote to kill him."

Chuck caught Bryce's eye. Bryce nodded. He believed the man as well. If the Ring Elders had put it to a vote, then only one man was left alive who'd had a hand in killing Stephen. The anger and the grief had had time to settle some; the wound had had a little time to heal. But still, hearing it straight from the source, it tore off the scab, and Chuck felt the anger coming back, and with it the need for payback. The thought hadn't even fully formed yet; just that brief glance exchanged with Bryce, when a fist pounded on the door.

"Secret Service! Declare yourselves!" They heard the call echoed up and down the hall.

"Agent Larkin here; I've got a prisoner!" Bryce called back. "Bring the leg-irons."

A pair of Secret Service Agents came in, and took over watch of Tang. "How many men under arms did you have here; count the rest of your cabal as well."

Tang rattled his chains, a stretch as if testing his bonds, and sighed. "Six gunmen, myself, Volkoff, Shaw and his wife."

Bryce glanced at the Secret Service man. "We left a man unconscious in one of the bedrooms. Does that account for all of them?"

"We found two in the kitchen, and one in the front parlor."

"The dead man in Woodcomb's bedroom makes five," Chuck said. "We're missing one."

"And the Shaws," Bryce reminded. "We'll go check on them, you two keep an eye on Mr. Tang, if you would."

Chuck slipped his pistol back into its holster and joined Bryce out in the hall. "Sarah probably took care of the last man."

"I didn't hear anything," Bryce said.

"Exactly," Chuck grinned, "If anyone else had found the man there'd have been screaming and gunfire. He prbably never saw her coming."

"Glad to see you've stopped underestimating me," Sarah's voice said from down the hall behind them. "But a _little _concern for my well being would be nice."

Bryce's jaw dropped open in shock at the tableau, even after witnessing her exploitson the train the day before. Sarah was marching a huge musclebound oaf down the hall, easily half a head taller than Chuck and half again as wide; his face was bloody, both eyes nearly swollen shut and his nose broken. Sarah had one of the man's huge arms twisted behind his back and there was a tiny smudge of dirt on her cheek. other than that, she was unharmed.

"He give you any trouble?" Chuck asked.

Sarah shrugged with both shoulders, and her captive groaned and fell down to one knee, clutching at his shoulder in pain. Her shrug must have wrenched his captive arm nearly out of joint. She grinned. "He tried. Anyone got a pair of handcuffs? I don't find holding hands with this gentleman to be at all to my taste."

Another Secret Service agent took custody of this prisoner as well, and Sarah lead the way downstairs to confer with her second in command. The man tried to hide his discomfort at deferring to Sarah, but none-too-successfully. "We're short a Ring Elder and his wife," Sarah explained. "I think he may have come down a bedsheet ladder and tried the perimeter."

The agent grimaced and rushed to pass the word to the agents forming their outer cordon. "I'll see if I can get any information out of our prisoners, send word if he comes back with any news, good or bad." Sarah leaned in and gave Chuck a kiss on the cheek.

He frowned, "When you say 'get information out of them', what exactly do you mean?"

Sarah dipped in a pocket momentarily and spun a set of brass knuckles through her fingers. "I can be very persuasive," she said.

"You can't," Chuck said, "Sarah, no."

"We don't have time to ask nicely, Chuck; I'm in command, it's my decision."

"I wasn't trying to..."

"We'll talk about this later, Chuck," Sarah said over her shoulder as she headed back into the building.

"Huh," Bryce said. "So you kind of put your foot in it there, Charles."

Chuck sighed and shrugged helplessly. "It has been a long couple of weeks," he said. "I'm not sure we've gone a full day without getting shot at since we met. It probably isn't necessary to beat the information we need out of them, I could-"

He cut off as Sarah's second in command came jogging back, face screwed up in a rictus of anger.

"They got away?" Bryce said. He didn't need to be able to see the future to know what was coming.

"Must have done," the agent said, "I've got two dead around back of the place with their throats cut, and no sign of this Shaw character. We need to get a wanted poster made up."

"I can probably help with that," Chuck said. "Just find me a newspaper."

Bryce frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

Chuck half-turned to shield the words from the agent; Sarah hadn't spread knowledge of Chuck's visions further than she could help, and Bryce was still coming to terms with it himself.

"I was going to explain to Sarah before she ran off; I saw the end of the Pullman strike in the newspaper a week before it happened," Chuck said. "Its worth trying again, don't you think?"

Bryce saw the logic in that right away.

The raid on Senator Woodcomb's estate had caused a certain amount of commotion. A crowd had gathered, but was keeping back a little. Only a hundred yards away a newsboy was standing on a rain barrel so he could see over the heads of the milling masses. Chuck headed in the boy's direction, but hadn't quite accounted for the crowd. He was accosted by questions at every turn, people demanding answers. Finally he and Bryce deflected the questioners to the reluctant second-in-command of the raid, and managed to slip through the crowd and reach the newsboy.

"Tha'll be a nickle, Mister," the boy said once Chuck gave him the nod.

He reached into his coat pocket where he'd been keeping his half of their travelling funds and frowned, turning to Bryce with a sheepish shrug. "Sarah has all my money," he said.

Bryce laughed and dug a half-dollar out of his pocket and flicked it throough the air to the newsboy. "Keep the change."

The newsboy knuckled his forehead and peeled a newspaper from his bundle before handing it over to Bryce, not Chuck. It was a silly little detail, but time was of the essence. Bryce rolled his eyes and passed the paper to Chuck. "Anything?"

"Give me a moment, Bryce," Chuck said. "This isn't an exact science." He riffled the newspaper, scowling briefly.

"Well?"

"Nothing yet, I still-" Chuck blinked and his whole body seized momentarily. He would have collapsed to the pavement had Bryce not caught him about the chest.

"East side harbor, Pier 22. The RMS Persephone, scheduled to depart in..." Chuck fished his pocketwatch out. "Just under an hour."

Bryce let out a low whistle. "And you know that because?"

"When the mastermind behind a plot to assassinate a sitting president escapes on a boat, the name of said boat makes is into a lot of newspapers," Chuck explained, flapping the newspaper.

Bryce nodded. "Alright, it'll take us at least twenty minutes to get down to the harbor, we'd better hurry." He went back to the line of carriages that had brought the Secret Service raiding force to the scene and hailed the driver of the first coach.

"More business," he said as he hopped up on the running board. "East side harbor, pier 22!"

"Shouldn't we wait for Sarah?"

"Every minute we wait he's a minute closer to freedom, Chuck." He raised his voice to a knot of half a dozen Service Agents. "Oy you lot, all aboard gents. We need reinforcements."

The men commandeered a second carriage, and in moments they were heading off. Chuck spotted the second in command out the window. "Tell Sarah, East side pier 22!" he shouted.

Bryce and the two agents aboard the coach smirked at him. "You're a bad influence on me, Bryce Larkin."

Agent Larkin shrugged in mock-apology.

"Now, Yuri," Sarah said, "I don't appreciate that kind of talk. Mr. Volkoff is dead in part because he called me something much milder. I admit I overreacted when I shot him in the chest." She backhanded the huge Russian with her brass knuckles. "But then, I'm hardly known for my even temper, Yuri."

"Won't tell you a thing..." Yuri forced out through swollen and split lips.

Sarah frowned. "You know, I almost believe you. I had hoped to avoid resorting to pharmacological interrogation."

Yuri scowled, and after a moment, she recognized it as puzzlement through the ruin of his face. Sarah nodded. "Allow me to explain," she said. "All this business with the brass knuckles, while certainly no picnic, isn't permanent. You'll heal up nicely in a few weeks."

Now these," she continued, pulling a small leather case from her duster pocket, and then extracting what looked to be a perfectly ordinary steel needle, "are another matter entirely. They're soaked with a compound known in the orient as 'Baka no hason'; which translates to 'tears of the fire goddess*'. A few drops, injected into your body will put you in such pain that it will quite literally drive you mad. Even if you tell me what I want to know after, there is no antidote, no reprieve. Well, save one..." Sarah drew a finger across her throat in demonstration.

A knock interrupted the tableau as fear spread across the captive's face.

"I asked not to be disturbed while questioning this man."

"Its important," the man said angrily. He really did not like answering to a woman, and if not for the current desperate search for the Shaws, she might have stopped to explain the realities of the situation to the man. However, there was something besides chauvinist hostility in his tone.

"Alright, let's have it."

"Pier 22, East harbor," he said, "Agent Larkin and your... husband headed that way with a squad of agents."

"Husband?" Yuri gasped in shock behind her.

Sarah rolled her eyes and tossed one of her poison quills at Yuri. It stuck in the man's neck and his eyes bulged. His eyes rolled up in his head and he fell still. "How long ago?"

"Ten minutes, give or take..."

"Damnit," Sarah growled.

Another agent poked his head in, and his eyes widened when he spotted Yuri's limp body; he'd obviously been listening in on her interrogation technique. "You killed him?"

Sarah shook her head in disgust and brandished the leather case at the younger agent. She spread the flap so both men could see a spool of thread and another handful of needles inside. "Of course not! He fainted. It's a sewing kit, for God's sake; now stand aside!"

Sarah took the stairs three at a time and commandeered the closest horse, leaping into the saddle and taking off at a breakneck gallop.

Bryce was already stepping down from the carriage before it came to a halt at the pier. Chuck had managed to describe Shaw and his wife down to their slightest quirks and mannerisms, in a decidedly unnerving display of foreknowledge as they had rumbled through the streets, and Bryce jogged over to the trailing carriage to spread the description to the rest of the team while Chuck and the two agents who'd ridden along with them shoved their way through the hurlyburly of the docks to the berth where the Persephone was preparing to depart. Men moved about their work, toting barrels of salt fish and bales of cotton, and all kinds of assorted cargo, a chaotic mess through which any number of hidden gunmen could be lurking. Chuck scanned the bustling dockyard, and fought down the itch between his shoulder blades. The Persephone was a new breed of ocean faring steam-ships, with two huge smokestacks toward the rear and multiple decks for passengers, cargo, anything at all, really.

A man at the boarding ramp tried to bar their way. "Tickets please—" the man started.

Chuck merely socked him in the jaw, and sent the man tumbling over the edge of the pier into the murky harbor water with a splash and a startled oath.

One of the agents following a step behind Chuck snickered. Another man who had been rushing to the rail of the Persephone to stymie their progress though better of it when he spotted Bryce and his knot of Secret Service agents bringing up the rear.

"How may I help you, gentlemen?"

"Federal Agents," Chuck said, which he figured was true enough, though his own status was somewhat nebulous. "You've got a pair wanted for murder, conspiracy to commit murder, treason, espionage, you name it. Name of Shaw, but they'll probably be under false papers. The man is very tall, taller than myself, dark of hair. His wife is shorter, pretty but cold eyes, dark hair as well."

"Treason you say?" The man goggled. "I can't hardly believe it!"

"What cabin," Chuck said. His hand had gone to the ivory handle of his revolver, seemingly of its own accord. His voice surprised even himself with its coldness.

The crewman stammered in fear, and Chuck shook his head. "Show me," he surprised himself again by pointing to two of the Agents. "Guard the ramp, make sure they don't get around us and escape. Do you understand. They don't leave this ship alive unless it's in our custody."

Bryce arched an eyebrow but didn't say a word. The two men Chuck had indicated glanced at each other, but followed orders without complaint.

He grabbed Chuck's sleeve as they followed the crewman below-decks. "Are you quite alright, Charles? You're acting... strangely."

Chuck nodded curtly. "I said I'd see this through to the end. And I will."

"It doesn't feel at all like it did storming Roark's mansion, does it?"

"No, and that's what scares me more than anything," Chuck said. "Something is off about this whole business, and I don't know what it is. We're falling behind, hurry."

The crewman led them through a narrow corridor and stopped in front of a wooden door marked with a roman numeral four. "Cabin four," the man said softly. "Mr. and Mrs. DuMont."

Bryce hauled the man away from the door, and waved for the agents to take up stations to either side. The corridor was crowded and it took a few moments getting everyone positioned just right to storm through the door. The floor was vibrating slightly, Chuck realized. That hadn't been the case earlier, had it? Bryce put his ear to the door and shook his head, then without warning, he reared back and slammed his boot into the door.

"Secret Service!" he shouted as the door burst open. "Don't move! You're under arrest!" Bryce and two agents rushed into the room and stopped dead in their tracks.

"Can I at least get dressed first?" a woman's voice said from behind a folding screen painted with a Chinese dragon.

"Where is he," Bryce demanded. "Where is Daniel Shaw?"

"I believe I'm entitled to speak with an attorney," she said, still behind her screen. "I'll be with you in a moment."

"Where is he?"

"I'm sure he's around somewhere," she said, and Chuck whirled around. Something had clicked in his brain when she said that, and he didn't know why. It wasn't a future-flash. It was something else.

"Engine room," he said, without waiting for his brain to finish explaining. He sprinted for the end of the corridor.

"What?" Bryce shouted. He poked his head out and exchanged bewildered glances with the agents in the corridor. "You two, take the prisoner back to the carriages. Everybody else, follow that Watchmaker!"

Chuck pulled his watch as they ran. It was still more than thirty minutes before the ship was scheduled to depart; why were they wasting coal by firing the engines so early? Why bother? Coal wasn't that expensive, but the Captain had to answer for the expenditure at some point, and Chuck doubted many ocean going vessels departed exactly on schedule. Trains rarely ran on time, he couldn't imagine ships did much better.

Unless someone was standing somewhere with a gun to his head.

Chuck took another pair of ladders, down ever deeper into the huge steam-ship. The outward trappings, polished fittings on doors and intricately patterned wallpaper, gave way to dull iron and bare walls, with copper pips overhead and the heavy thrum of the ships huge engines.

He paused for breath, and Bryce and the rest caught up with him.  
"What has gotten into you?" Bryce said, a little short of breath himself. "And how do you know your way around down here so damn well?"

Chuck grimaced and tapped the side of his head. "I don't know. But something important is going on."

"That's helpful."

"Just, everyone be careful. I think he's trying to force the ship to leave early. He may have hostages."

"Did you flash on the layout?"

Chuck shook his head. "No flash. Just a hunch."

"Perfect. Alright; split up into pairs," Bryce said. "There's only one of him. Support each other. Try to get the engines stopped if you can. Chuck, with me."

The door opened onto a huge chamber, filled with smoke and steam and noise. Two men lay dead a dozen feet from them as they came in. But no one had heard gunfire. Even over the clamor of the steam pistons, someone aboard would have heard gunfire. The men moved closer to inspect the bodies, and their wounds became more obvious. Both men had been slashed across the throat and died messily.

The heat of the engine room was oppressive and the engine noise made communication difficult. One of the Secret Service agents shouted, but had to repeat himself. "Sword!" Chuck realized he was saying after the second try, but mostly it was the pantomime of a sword-swing and the emphatic pointing to the bodies that got the message across.

Bryce pointed to his ears and then around at the machinery. They remembered, and two agents set off in search of the controls. Chuck and Bryce and their two remaining agents set off again. Chuck could feel sweat dripping down his forehead and hastily swiped a sleeve across his brow. He couldn't afford sweat in his eyes. Without thinking about it, he shrugged out of his coat and let it fall to the ground. It was just a nuisance to him now.

Bryce followed suit after a moment, but he wrapped the garment loosely around his free hand. Chuck grimaced. That was a good idea. Shaw was down here somewhere with a sword, as well as probably a pistol of some kind, and even the smallest bit of protection would be worthwhile. Chuck briefly toyed with the notion of going back to use his own coat as a somewhat feeble substitute for a fencing buckler, but he didn't dare.

Gunfire suddenly echoed in the chamber, followed by a scream. The acoustics were horrible. Chuck and Bryce could scarcely guess where either the shots or the scream had come from. Two shots. Did that mean two of their men down?

Where the hell was Shaw?

Chuck and Bryce moved in their best guess for the direction of the shots, with Bryce taking lead. His makeshift buckler made it the logical formation. It was a struggle for Chuck to keep his breathing steady. His heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest as they inched around a huge boiler, sweat sheeting down their backs. Bryce poked his head briefly around the corner and saw the other pair of agents. One was down with a bullet in his leg, trying to hold the wound closed one handed. He still had his pistol in hand, though it wavered. The second agent lay face-down, a pool of blood slowly growing from underneath him. The living agent locked eyes with Bryce and flicked the tip of his revolver in the direction he thought the shooter had gone.

Bryce signaled to Chuck and after a moment of thought, Chuck tapped himself in the chest, then pointed around the other side of the boiler. Bryce nodded and turned to cover his brother while Chuck crept back around to the far end of the heavy iron boiler.

It seemed to take forever for Chuck to get into position, then Bryce shuffled out into the open. The noise of the engines suddenly shifted timbre and dropped noticeably; it went from a cacophony to a dull roar. A rush of steam shot out from a pipe along the bulkhead above Bryce's head, and a bullet crashed into the plate steel. Bryce whirled toward the report of the gun and squeezed off two rounds. A second shot came out of the pall of steam and slammed into his arm, spinning him around. His pistol tumbled from his grasp and a moment later he hit the bulkhead and grunted, bounced off and dove for cover. "Chuck, bowside gun'l!" Another bullet whizzed by his head.

Chuck heard the call and blinked; it took him a second to remember that far back, to his days with Bryce on the rowing team at Harvard. Bowside was starboard, and the gunwale was the top rail. He knew at once what Bryce had meant, and rolled around the corner of the boiler, gun coming up in both hands.

He squeezed the trigger and shot well above and to the right of a shadowy shape he could barely make out behind a mess of piping. A jet of scalding vapor shot from the overhead steam pipes and Shaw cursed and staggered into the open. Chuck's shock at hitting his target gave the Ring Elder a moment to turn and fire blindly. The first round went well wide of him, and Chuck aimed and fired, grazing the man. Shaw cursed and Chuck heard metal clang on metal. The moment seemed to freeze in amber. He could see every detail clearly, what wasn't obscured by steam.

He grit his teeth and fired again, and again, until Shaw took a round to the gut and toppled to the ground. His gun skittered away from him.

The sound of the engines dropped again, though off at the fore end of the engine room pistons still chugged along. Chuck hurried over, pistol out. The last Elder scrabbled after his weapon, clutching at his stomach-wound. He was only an arm's-length from the gun when Chuck was confident of his own shot, ten feet away. Their eyes met, and Chuck felt the future unfold briefly.

Shaw's hand twitched and Chuck hauled back the hammer on his forty-four. "Now, I know what you're thinking. 'Did he fire six shots or only five?' Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a Colt Peacemaker, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you better ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well do ya?"

Shaw swallowed and shook his head, collapsing to the floor. Chuck took in a breath of air that had never tasted sweeter, rushed over and kicked the weapon away.

Shaw looked up, utter defeat in his eyes. "I must know," he panted.

Chuck's grin widened, he took careful aim, and pulled the trigger.

Shaw's breath caught in his throat when the hammer clicked down on an empty chamber. He tensed, but Bryce was there a moment later, and Chuck already had a derringer in hand. Bryce grinned.

"That was some speech, Chuck. Nicely done."

Shaw groaned and rolled onto his back, face crunched up into a snarl of agony.

"I'll pass along the compliment if I ever meet Mr. Eastwood."

"Who?" Bryce said.

Chuck tapped his temple, and Bryce rolled his eyes.

"Now what?"

"He's gut shot," Chuck said. "You know any surgeon who could save him?"

"Devon & Ellie might get lucky. They're a pretty good team."

"Pity there's in New Orleans then, isn't it. Mr. Shaw has hours left to think about his mistakes before he dies."

Bryce nodded. "A bullet would be a mercy. Too bad he ordered our father's death, or maybe I'd even give it to him."

Shaw shook his head. "No... Didn't..."

"Well, you're hardly going to admit to it, are you? Your chums gave you up. We had it from Tang that it was your idea, Shaw. We know you voted to have Stephen Bartowski killed."

"No. You don't understand. It wasn't me. It was Eve. It was all her... from the very beginning. I was... just... a facade. They never would have taken orders from a woman. The others always underestimated her..."

A shiver went down his spine. "Son of a bitch," Chuck breathed.

Bryce had trouble keeping up with Chuck on the climb back out of the depths of the ship; his wounded arm made it nearly impossible. "Go, I'm right behind you," he gasped. Bryce paused long enough to flip his pistol out of its holster and up to Chuck.

"I don't know if I could shoot a woman, Bryce."

He grimaced. "I know. Just take it; you might need it."

Chuck burst out onto the deck and headed for the rail. The two men they'd left to make certain no one escaped were nowhere to be seen. Neither were the two he remembered Bryce telling off to escort Evelyn Shaw to holding. Maybe the other two had decided to tag along to make sure she didn't escape. He had a sinking feeling four wasn't nearly enough.

He thundered across the ramp and into the chaos of the docks once more and spotted her. There were four agents around her, and he couldn't remember if Bryce had ordered her clapped in irons. She glanced over her shoulder and spotted him almost at the same instant he had spotted her.

Chuck tried to shout a warning, but his voice was lost in the tumult.

She flashed a dimple at him over her shoulder. He watched helplessly as it started.

They were almost to the carriages the Secret Service had arrived in. It was now or never; she glanced over her shoulder and spotted the Bartowski son. She couldn't help a smirk. It really was now or never. She 'stumbled' and went down to one knee. One of the agents 'escorting' her paused. "Are you alri—"

He never finished the word. Eve's hand flicked up under her skirt and retrieved the knife from her garter. She thrust forward with the blade, straight up into the concerned agent's gut. He gasped and began to crumple. As he fell she drove back to her feet and twisted her hips. Her free hand popped the tie-down off and plucked the man's pistol out of its holster. All of them had their weapons in their holsters, tied down. It would take them all a fatal second to retrieve their pistols.  
Her knife hand came back and fanned the hammer as she spun. The stolen pistol barked four times, and her captors fell like cut barley, spinning down onto the cobbled street in fans of blood. She continued the spin as the chaos of the docks turned to sheer bedlam. Men and women screamed and the crowd parted, leaving her and Bartwoski's idiot son face to face, less than fifty yards apart.

She flicked the knife clean on her skirts and turned on her heel, blade spinning around in her hand to a throwing position, and she threw. The carriage driver took the blade in the shoulder, but the shock of the impact sent him reeling out of the driver's box to the ground.

She let the momentum of her turn bring her back around to face Bartowski and she settled down into a firing stance.

Chuck dove behind a barrel, and wood chips plumed up above him a heartbeat before the crack of the pistol assaulted his ears. He scrambled back to his hands and knees and peeked his head out for just an instant, and he caught a glimpse of a muzzle flash. He felt the bullet rip through the air inches from his head, and behind him, a woman screamed in pain. Chuck grit his teeth and pulled his borrowed revolver.

"Stop!" he shouted, as he took aim. Eve Shaw vaulted up onto the driver's box and cracked the reins. "Goddamnit stop!"

The horses got half a dozen trotting steps before a heavy two by four board came out of nowhere and cracked Mrs. Shaw across the midsection. She toppled to the cobblestones and the carriage trailed to a stop after a few dozen more yards.

Eve stared up at her attacker in shock. "You heard the man," Sarah said with a grin as she thumbed back the hammer on her peacemaker. "Where did you think you were going, hmm? Just be glad you missed my husband, or this little talk would be ending quite differently. Oh, and you're under arrest. Bitch."

* * *

Epilogue:

One Week Later

Woodcomb Estate

Roan had moved into Senator Woodcomb's house while they ironed everything out. It was much more spacious and convenient than Castle, and it was becoming more and more obvious with each passing day. The Ring was finished, once and for all. It had been a canker on his otherwise stellar tenure as head of the clandestine wing of the Secret Service, and its removal had him in high spirits. Also, Senator Woodcomb's fine collection of spirits had something to do with that, but only when he wasn't working.

In exchange for his cooperation in finding and dismantling the remnants of the Ring, and his timely aid in finding the location of the Ring's high leadership, Roan had lobbied the president for a deal on the man's behalf. He'd also gone to Cleveland for a similar deal, on the off chance he wound up back in the White House come November. Both men had been surprisingly accommodating, once Roan had finished playing-up the Senator's involvement in the operation that had prevented their dual assassination attempts.

All in all, it had been a good week, except for the uncertainty about agent Walker— Bartowski— he mentally corrected himself. That would never cease to puzzle him, but he figured there was no accounting for tastes. Once the final fugitive Ring Elders had been placed in _secure _custody, she and Bartowski had simply disappeared, and it had required nearly twenty agents on double shifts nearly the full week to discover that they were back in Boston, living out of that ridiculous watch repair shop once more.

The one loose end that kept nagging at him was Mrs. Shaw. She'd been nearly as formidable as agent Walker— dammit— herself; and he was willing to bet there were few enough made from that mold that two showing up at once was more than the whim of capricious fate. He'd had men looking into her background for a week, with no result whatsoever. He'd even ordered up a copy of the Shaw's marriage license, just to make certain that those were truly their real names; and it should have arrived... he checked his pocket watch... ten minutes ago. He tapped his sword-cane against the side of his leg and ground his teeth. And waited.

Finally the bell rang, and Roan popped out of his seat. He waved the doorman back to his post and answered the door himself, snatching the parcel out of the messenger's hands and tearing it open. He glanced at the document, not really expecting anything out of the ordinary.

But then his eyes fell across the maiden name of the bride. And he cursed a blue streak.

The messenger hadn't moved, as he hadn't been paid yet, and he coughed into his hand. "Excuse me, is there... um... a problem?"

Roan merely pointed angrily at the man and stalked into the parlor where Woodcomb had had a telephone installed at Montgomery's request. The messenger followed him in, and scooped up the fallen document.

"Sir?"

Roan was already on the line with the operator. "Yes, get me Cavanaugh at Fort Leavenworth. Yes. I'll wait."

"Sir?" The messenger said a touch more insistently.

"Dammit, not now!"

"Excuse me, sir, but you still owe me a quarter dollar," the man frowned. "I'm sorry it wasn't good news. Did you... I mean. You knew the bride I take it?"

Roan waved the man off. "Yes, thank you. Roan Montgomery, Secret Service. You should have a prisoner in your custody, Evelyn Shaw. I want her placed in solitary confinement. No contact whatsoever with _anyone_!

What do you mean she never arrived? I received word from you two days ago," Roan shook his head in denial. But after a moment, he gathered himself, and replaced the handset on the cradle. He turned to the messenger. "I'll need you to send a telegram at once."

"First I need paying."

"Fine, fine!"  
"Sorry about your lady friend."

Roan rolled his eyes. "She wasn't my lady friend."

"Ah, a daughter then," the courier said sagely. "My condolences, Mr. Moriarty."

"It's Montgomery," Roan fumed.

"But it says right here..."  
"I know full well what it says, you twit. Take down this message."

"Recipient?"

"Mycroft Holmes, Century House, London England."

"Message?"  
Roan grimaced. "Tell your brother. The game is afoot."

THE END

* * *

*Actually translates to 'tears of the idiot.' Who says Sarah doesn't have a sense of humor?

* * *

A/N: And that's all for this AU, folks. Sorry for the teaser for a Sherlock Holmes/Chuck vs the Frontier crossover-sequel that isn't happening, but that scene's been in my head for at _least_ a year. I think I was writing Chapter 8 or 9 of this story when I discussed it in passing with _daywalkr82 _and _aardvark7734. _They can back me up that I didn't just throw that epilogue in because the new Sherlock Holmes movie just came out. (It may have _also_ been related to that, but not _just_ because of it.)

I need to concentrate on writing that might actually pay my bills and I don't know that I'll ever have time to write _Chuck vs the Napoleon of Crime_. Really love that title though.

Note: This doesn't mean I'm not working on the Sequel to _Chuck & Sarah vs the Bunker, _just that I can't split my focus so much by working on more than one Fanfic at once.

Said Sequel, _Chuck and Sarah vs the Recruits,_ is probably the most thoroughly outlined and pre-written piece I've ever worked on. So, I'd feel bad if I just left it unwritten. It's coming, eventually.


End file.
